


Hellborne Truths

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Is So Done, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Mycroft, Revenge, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, Smut, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24072496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: When Sherlock goes to ‘Hell’ as part of Mary’s last demand, things do not go as anticipated. Or, upon discovering what Sherlock had done, an unamused Mycroft goes to save him instead.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Holmescest Works [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 106
Kudos: 271





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Another story that wouldn't exist without the awesome LadyGlinda. 
> 
> This is a finished work with seven chapters, so I will post every couple of days. 
> 
> It's not John-friendly at all. Although some people might say that it's more realistic than how the show itself had dealt with it. It's meant for me to process what a shitty friend John has been ever since Sherlock returned from the Fall with the usual holmescest spin. But when I watch/see/read S4, all I see is a rather angry little man with some serious issues. I mean Lockie isn't perfect either, but it doesn't justify whatever the hell John does. This is essentially a S4 fix-it starting from TLD. And also... everyone in S4 fails Lock in some way, so let's fix that.
> 
> Quotes are from Ariane DeVere's awesome transcripts.

Mycroft should have known better. He really really should have. If he had figured this out sooner, he wouldn’t be running down the halls of some godforsaken hospital – praying to whatever deity there may be that he isn’t too bloody late. 

Even before Mrs. Hudson had shooed him out – ‘Get out of my house, you reptile.’ – the pieces had been slowly coming together. The fascination with Culverton Smith – philanthropist. The drugs. The refusal to be admitted to another hospital. Dr. Watson’s knuckles – especially when he had left the hospital. Mycroft had seen the good doctor’s knuckles like that once before several years back caught on CCTV – and that had been after little brother had returned from the dismantling of Moriarty’s web. A confirmation of the state of affairs between the two. 

In the car, Mycroft had tapped into the bug that he had left behind at 221B Baker Street before he had vacated the premises. He had heard – everything. The late Mrs. Watson’s (née whoever she was) last request to his brother. Dr. John Watson’s rather pathetic driveling over this bloody woman. Oh – Mycroft had seen those rather intriguing texts between Dr. Watson and his new therapist, make no mistake. Never has his blood boiled so hot at the thought of his precious little brother playing out this ludicrous scheme. Sherlock had killed for these Watsons. Died for them. And even from beyond the living, she still had her nasty little grip on his brother. 

‘Go pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm's way.’ 

‘Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it.’

Indeed!

And what did Sherlock ever get in return? Presumably a couple of fists – again. A contemptuous attitude. Slim pickings for a man who deserved better. The best – actually. And what had that bloody woman been expecting? That Dr. Watson goes to save his brother? By the time he gets his thick head out of his own arse – it would be too bloody late! 

In his long illustrious career, Mycroft had learned that if one wanted something done properly, one better go do it himself. 

There is only the cap of a policeman left in front of the door. Urgently, Mycroft reaches for the handle. It’s stuck. Locked most probably – from the inside. Blast it. What kind of a bloody hospital has such locks on their patient room doors? He jiggles it around a bit – trying to keep his panic under control. Remember. Serbia. He mutters to himself – before driving his heel toward the space where he observes the lock to be. It snaps immediately – forcing the door to swing inward. 

He can hear footsteps behind him – oh good, someone’s returned back to their deserted post.

Mycroft rushes in – and gripping Smith by the neck – he throws him off to the side with such tremendous force that the man smacks into the wall. He could hear the police officer talking to his brother – and knowing that Sherlock is alive after a quick glance at his dear awestruck face – Mycroft focuses his attention on this heinous little man who had slid down to the floor in agony. 

“I-I was just helping him!” Smith gasps, his fingers reaching upwards to massage the side of his head – which had hit the wall. 

Mycroft gives him a tight little smile. The one he reserves for traitors, enemies of the state and so on and so forth. His gloved hands reach for the man’s throat and squeeze ever so slightly. The man instantly goes quiet – but Mycroft can see him gaze frantically but uselessly towards the police officer who is busy getting the tale from his brother.

“I heard. Mr. Smith. That you have an addiction.” Mycroft says, quietly. Conversationally. “It’s been rumoured – you see – in venerable circles over the last few years. Of course, as you know – addiction is a common ailment. My brother has his – which undoubtedly gained him admission into your esteemed hospital. But you – you have a peculiar type of itch you need scratched on occasion, haven’t you?”

“You–you can’t prove anything!” He squeaks – the syllables barely audible beneath Mycroft’s hands. 

Mycroft’s smile only grows wider. “H. H. Holmes. Convenient, isn’t it? When you have a hospital at your disposal… hm? No proper blueprints. Trapdoors. Secret passageways. How many – I wonder – have disappeared? Ah, ah – don’t you say anything. We wouldn’t want you to incriminate yourself, wouldn’t we?” Mycroft draws a breath, ah – he had almost forgotten how  _ fun _ this could all be.  _ Legwork. _ “But… you’ve made one mistake. You see – I also have a rather unhealthy addiction…” 

Mycroft almost laughs when Smith pales. “My brother. Had he expired –” Mycroft grimaces at the word. “I guarantee that will be the end of you. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. But instead – I will turn you over to the capable and more merciful hands of the New Scotland Yard. Johnson!”

The police officer walks over to Mycroft and raises his cap smartly. “Yes, sir?”

“Kindly take this man out of my sight. I have no doubt that my brother has a recording of his confession.”

The handcuffs go on – and Smith exclaims weakly when Mycroft’s hands leave his throat. “I don’t know if this is relevant, Mr. Holmes – but I found three potential recording –”

“Must be something comforting about the number three… people always give up after three…” His brother croaks as loudly as he possibly could – now with the head of the bed raised. “The cane, big brother.” 

The look of horror on the serial killer’s face is priceless.

***

“You utter idiot. What were you thinking?” Mycroft turns his attention to his beaten and battered brother in the hospital bed. 

Sherlock turns weakly to look at his brother. This is not how he had envisioned things to go. This is not at all how Mary had said things would play out. John should be here… not Mycroft.  _ Mycroft. _ Did Mycroft really do all of that? Kick open a door? Throw a serial killer halfway across the room from his bed? All for him? After sending him away for Magnussen’s murder? Mycroft?

“I had to… brother. Mary said –”

“I have heard what the late Mrs. Morstan had asked of you. What more do they want from you? You’ve already killed for them, died for them – must you die  _ again  _ for them?”

“Save… John…” Sherlock murmurs. 

“After everything he’s done to you, brother mine? I saw the state of his knuckles on the CCTV footage when he left the hospital after you were admitted. I saw them again today – at Baker Street with my own eyes. You are black and blue and purple all over, have several cracked ribs and even managed to exacerbate your kidney damage!”

“I deserved –” 

“No.” Mycroft grabs his hand – the arm of which that does not have his peripheral IV stuck in it –  _ sans  _ glove. The amount of  _ passion(?) _ in his brother’s voice gives Sherlock pause. His voice is hard. “No – you do not. No one asked Mrs. Watson to jump in front of the bullet that was intended for you – little brother. Believe me, I was there to see it. Had I known how many problems that she would have caused during her short acquaintance with you –”

Sherlock could see it. Mycroft had wanted to do away with Mary for ages. Even before the whole Magnussen fiasco. “But still, she saved my life at the expense of hers…”

“Only fitting, little brother.”

“And… John?” Sherlock asks, cautiously. 

“Anthea said he went home.” Mycroft grimaces in a way that tells Sherlock that Mycroft will deal with him soon.

“Don’t… don’t kill him – Myc.” 

Sherlock actually looks teary-eyed. Mycroft sighs deeply, letting his hand rest on his brother’s cheek, gently wiping a drop away. His brother would need time to grieve. If this isn’t a death knell for a friendship – Mycroft doesn’t even know how else it could possibly sound like. 

“You should sleep.” Mycroft whispers, his voice surprisingly soft and tender. 

Sherlock remembers something. “You said – you said to him that you had an addiction… and it was… me.” 

“I didn’t say that.” Mycroft says firmly.

“Yes you did.” Sherlock gives a small smile. “You care.”

“Of course I do.” Mycroft lets his hand drift up higher into Sherlock’s matted curls that desperately need a proper wash. “I never said I didn’t.”

“I thought… after Magnussen…”

“I was cross with you, I am not going to lie – brother. I had him under control… And things would have been fine had you not meddled or drugged my drink.” And Mrs. Watson would have shot Magnussen dead and he wouldn’t even be having this conversation with his brother right now. 

“What was the dirt he wanted from you – brother?” Sherlock asks – his voice so quiet that Mycroft reads the question off his lips. 

Oh dear. This is not what he wants to be talking about right now. If ever.

“It’s certainly nothing to do about your sex life. You are – more celibate than most priests. And you called me the virgin!” 

“Sherlock – this is inane. Go to sleep.” Mycroft sighs again both deeply and painfully. 

His brother closes his eyes, and Mycroft continues to run his fingers through his curls. 

“I don’t want to be alone, My…” Sherlock says pitifully a minute later.

“You won’t be. I will be here.” Mycroft quickly promises. “Sleep.”

Just before Sherlock drifts off, he swears that he could feel lips distinctively brush against his temple. 

***

“Ah, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft greets when the frazzled looking Lestrade makes his way toward Sherlock’s room. He inquires – even though the answer could be read easily off his face. “Long day?”

“Too long. Oh god. He just wouldn’t… shut up.” Lestrade rubs at his forehead. “It’s like a water hose. Your brother sure knows how to pick’em, that’s for sure.” 

Mycroft knows the type. It is safe to infer that a man who loves to confess to the deceased would enjoy boasting to the living. Genius needs an audience. Sometimes. It is fortuitously not a requirement for himself. He changes the topic. “Have you noticed… the state of Dr. Watson’s fists these days?” 

Lestrade’s brows furrow. 

“Some swelling. Blood. A bit of bruising?” Mycroft offers helpfully. “Almost as if –”

“Yes – John did tell me he hit him hard – but I didn’t realize how hard. And how many blows he landed. Or of the damages afterward. Until now...” Lestrade informs. “Rather… unnecessary – now that I think about it.”

Mycroft tuts in disapproval. 

“John.” Lestrade continues – looking greatly troubled. And ashamed. As he rightfully should. The detective inspector sighs. “I should have known. I knew about what happened when Sherlock came back all those years ago. But I – gave him a pass. Since I figured they were friends and could maturely sort it out...”

“As did I.” Mycroft shakes his head. A shame. He should have dealt with this problem sooner. Do better by his brother. “To my infinite regret, of course.” 

“Perhaps a night in the slammer? We can find him a nice berth for him to reflect on his… lack of control, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade offers tentatively. “Unless… Sherlock is willing to press charges?”

“My brother is a puppy. There is no way he would.” Mycroft barely controls the disgust in his voice. “Better make it a private cell.” 

“Understood.” Lestrade affirms. He sighs. “If Sherlock is still resting, I guess I better head back.” Then he shudders. “Certainly there must be an end at some point.”

“For your sake, I can only hope so.” Mycroft gives a final polite nod before walking away.

***

“You are still here…” Sherlock tilts his head slightly upward. He blinks with some disbelief at Mycroft – deducing that his brother hadn’t left the hospital in the last few hours. 

“I did say I would be here, Sherlock.” Mycroft pets his brother’s forearm. “I did promise that you wouldn’t be alone.”

The fond look that Mycroft sends his way creates an odd warm sensation within Sherlock’s chest. He sighs, as Mycroft slips his fingers again into his curly locks, and Sherlock allows himself to be soothed. His brother had forgiven him for Mangussen then. But then – why does this feel so familiar? Sherlock wonders. Is he losing his mind? Seeing people that aren’t really there? Feeling a déjà vu of events and sensations that he couldn’t recall? Is it the drugs? Maybe it’s just the side-effect of being in the hospital. Hospital-induced-delirium is a thing. Or being suffocated by a psychopathic little man. But then again… what about Faith? And… John… 

“Did… John –”

“Sorry, little brother – he went to Ms. Hooper’s about an hour ago.” Mycroft says – as kindly as he could. 

How could both Mary and he be so wrong about John? Sherlock wonders, as he leans further into Mycroft’s touches. His best friend. A tear escapes from the corner of an eye, and big brother’s fingertip catches it as it streaks down his cheek. 

“He’s not worth it.” Mycroft whispers as sympathetically as he could manage. “I know. I know – it hurts, Lock.”

Lock… The nickname seems to reverberate somewhere in Sherlock’s mind. It’s not a name that he could recall being called in recent memory. Again – that strange queer feeling seems to tingle up his spine. Did Mycroft call him that before? A long time ago? Or is it from the grief that he is feeling? 

His brother takes out a small box from somewhere Sherlock cannot see to the bedside table. From the aroma, Sherlock could deduce – cake! Ooh. Mycroft is brave – daring to bring such a dessert into Sherlock’s presence. But any diet jokes that Sherlock may have had at the tip of his tongue crumbles into bitter ashes as he watches his brother open the cardboard – revealing a chocolate noisette cake in all its chocolatey and hazelnutty glory from a luxurious bakery – and stick a single pink birthday candle in its centre. 

Oh. Sherlock had completely forgotten. It’s his birthday – today. 

Mycroft looks at him, amused. “Anything you need to say?”

Sherlock shakes his head. As Mycroft fishes out a lighter from his pocket, Sherlock remarks. “It’s illegal to light candles in the hospital, big brother.”

His brother actually winks. “Well, I guess it will be our little secret.”

The small candle is lit – and Mycroft actually whispers the words of ‘Happy Birthday’ into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock is even more astonished, when his brother requests. “Make a wish?” 

Goldfish traditions.

Sherlock stares at the small ember flickering away, as Mycroft brings the cake – still in its box – closer to him, so that he could blow it out. What does he wish for? For John to come back? And be his friend? Like the good old days? Somehow – he thinks Mycroft would be disappointed with that wish… And – the battered logical side of him is beginning to see that it might possibly be a lost cause. But wait – why does he all of a sudden care about disappointing Mycroft? Argh. What is wrong with him? Did Smith give him some sort of drug that he hadn’t been aware of? Unlikely. Sherlock had made sure that the drips administered to him were all harmless with the help of the capable Nurse Cornish. 

Better focus on something simple then. How about – feeling less like crap? That would do. He blows out the candle, and Mycroft returns it back to the table. Sherlock watches as Mycroft dismantles the sides of the box before taking out a plastic knife to cut it into four meticulous pieces. 

Those hands… Sherlock reflects – as he reminisces about how tender they can be – the fingers gently combing through Sherlock’s curls – stroking his cheek. How lethal they could be. He had watched Mycroft’s hands close against Smith’s windpipe with the ease of someone who had done this before. And he doesn’t doubt it – that Mycroft would have crushed the little man’s neck on the spot if he – Sherlock, had really died by his hands. And this isn’t even the first time Mycroft had left his comfortable desk to save him… How could he have forgotten! Serbia! 

His brother plates a slice of cake – and Sherlock permits Mycroft to feed him. Mm… It’s mind-blowingly good. Orgasmic. Not too rich. Hits his sweet tooth just right. Perfection. There is a two to one ratio being deployed – Sherlock gets two bites, and Mycroft eats one. The one slice disappears rapidly, followed by another. 

“Feeling better now?” Mycroft asks after he boxes up the remainder.

Sherlock nods. He knows that his brother will give the leftovers to Nurse Cornish – who deserves every decadent morsel. “When can I… go home?”

“The physician who came by earlier said tomorrow morning. But you’ve got to take it easy – brother mine.” His brother then hesitates, before saying. “I know that Mrs. Hudson would look after you at Baker Street, brother – but if you want… you can stay with me for the time being. I know I will be at work during the day, but –”

“Can I decide tomorrow?”

“Of course.” His brother gives him a small smile – before reaching over to caress his cheek one last time. “I will come in the late morning.”

And before Mycroft leaves the room, Sherlock requests – knowing intuitively that his brother is not just simply going home to sleep in his own comfortable bed. “And – Mycroft – please don’t kill him…!” 

His brother pauses at the door. He turns to look back at him with an expression of utmost graveness. And gives him one slow and reluctant nod before walking out. 


	2. Chapter 2

John doesn’t know how this day could be any worse. Under the dimmed lights of the cell, he relaxes his still swollen fists. God. Why the bloody fuck is he here? They had arrived at his flat, announced that he was to be taken into custody for assault – and here he bloody is. All he could be thankful for is that Rosie – sweet little Rosie – had been with Molly. God damn it! Perhaps he shouldn’t have told Greg that he had ‘hit’ Sherlock the other day – probably the copper’s fault. Some fucking friend he is… 

Sherlock should be here – he thinks – instead of him. Fuck this. He wasn’t the one who blew off Magnussen’s head. The one who lied about his death to everyone for a few bloody years for a lark around the world. The one waving around a scalpel. The one who killed Mary – his precious Mary – with his bloody big mouth. It just isn’t right. Or fair. Or just. He stands – and with all the pent up frustration – he punches the solid wall in front of him. 

“Fuck!” John curses loudly – almost relishing in the pain in his knuckles. 

He doesn’t see it. The wraith that had slipped into his gaol with nary a sound – except for the click of the key in the hole and the subtle clatter of the bars as the door closes. Suddenly, there are gloved fingers at his throat – and John struggles – he really does – trying to blindly aim for the delicate bones of his attacker’s foot. But, the digits clamp down like a vice – and John is forced to stop. He goes limp while he struggles to catch a breath that he cannot acquire. Sheer terror courses throughout his body – oh god, he’s going to fucking die (Rosie!) – and then – the fingers relax just enough. Just enough to let him breathe. Little shallow breaths. He inhales. He exhales. Precious gulps of air. Of oxygen. 

Minutes seem to pass.

“So. We meet again, Dr. Watson.” 

Mycroft. Of bloody course. Big brother. 

“Please… let go of me…” John gasps – his throat feeling sore and scratchy. Oh – and pain!

Mycroft tuts in disappointment. “Now, now… Dr. Watson – begging already? I do recall a conversation we had years prior. Your exact words to me were: ‘You don’t seem very frightening.’” 

God. What does one even say in these circumstances? 

“Cat got your tongue?” Mycroft sounds amused. “Typically, it is polite to conduct a conversation – face-to-face. Why don’t you turn around and face me – Dr. Watson. Go on.” At John’s hesitation, Mycroft adds in a faux-friendly manner. “I don’t bite. Much.” 

Realizing that he has no choice in the matter, John turns slowly – the fingertips still gripping threateningly around his neck.

“And no funny business. We both know that it takes four seconds to kill via strangulation. At the minimum. But there’s no fun in that, is there?” Two fingertips lightly press warningly against both of John’s racing carotids – and he swallows.

Mycroft is actually grinning. Baring his teeth like one of those Great Whites that John had seen on Shark Week or the National Geographic channel on the telly. This is not the man that John had encountered in that dreary warehouse all those years ago. Certainly not the man who Sherlock had always criticized as a ‘pencil pusher’ or ‘lazy’. No. This is a man who has killed before. And if John isn’t careful – will kill again. 

“Sherlock would hate you.” John doesn’t even know how those words found their way into his mouth. 

“Oh… on the contrary, Dr. Watson – Sherlock knows that I am here.” Mycroft says with dark pleasantry. “And that brings us to the main topic of our conversation. Your knuckles – Dr. Watson. Although – I do see that you’ve been on the losing end of a bout with the wall just a moment ago.” The tone is slightly mocking. 

“Your brother – your brother – he was mad! The drugs! Waving that scalpel around – had to stop him before he killed someone else –”

“Could you not have… I don’t know… snatched the tool from his hand? Grabbed his arm?”

John gulps. 

“Instead, you punched him. You even kicked him. I heard that the people from the hospital had to pull you off him.” The tone had changed from mocking to pure ice. So quiet that John has to strain hard to hear the syllables. “I don’t even have to ask you ‘why’. That will be an insult to both our intellects. You think he deserved it. You think he ought to be in here instead of you – isn’t that right, Dr. Watson?” 

If looks could kill, John would be a puddle on the floor right now. Probably. The fingers exert more pressure, and John hurries to rasp. “Yes. Yes – I did!” Tears are starting to collect in his eyes. “My wife. My – dear darling beaut-”

“Shut the fuck up.” The use of the expletive tells John all he ever needs to know about Mycroft’s sentiments toward his brother. He shuts up. Immediately. Like a clam. Especially when those fingers had flexed alarmingly at the word ‘fuck’. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I do wish to indulge in a good night’s sleep tonight. You heard your wife’s last message. Telling my little brother to throw himself to the wolves so that  _ you _ – Dr. Watson – could go save him. To save you. To save your friendship with my brother. What does my brother do? He seeks out one of the nastiest pieces of work to have ever graced London. Mr. Culverton Smith. Yes – that  _ innocent  _ man that you tried to save from a scalpel. You can ask Lestrade – I am sure he can fill you in with all the scintillating details once he’s done interviewing. Well – that is if he’s ever done interviewing him... So, my dear brother drugs himself to get admitted into Mr. Smith’s hospital – where he then lures you in to drop off your walking stick – which contains a bug – and then – per your wife’s plan – you were supposed to go in there and rescue him from the killer. What do you do instead? Listen to your wife’s words like a pathetic remorseful fool that had recently cheated on his wife – and then go home instead to throw yourself a pity party. So – why don’t you let me tell you what my brother endured instead, hm?”

John’s vision is blurry now. Oh god. Sherlock didn’t die did he? No – Mycroft had mentioned that he knows that Mycroft is here. And – how did Mycroft know – no – why is he even asking that? Mycroft probably looked at his texts with his therapist. Bloody government surveillance. 

“Oh. Stop crying.” Mycroft demands – almost hissing his words – while shaking John. “Did my brother ever cry when you hit him, slapped him – kicked him – threw him to the ground?” 

He tries to shake his head – while Mycroft continues grimly. “Let me tell you about Smith. He had an unhealthy addiction. As I understand – it was rather difficult to manage. The urge to  _ kill. _ He picked his victims brilliantly – those who had no connections, those who were desperate to be gone. Until he stumbled upon my brother. Do you know how he killed, Dr. Watson? He preferred suffocation. His victims would be all drugged up and drowsy – and then he would go up to them and place his hands over their mouth and nose. And then – when he suffocates them – he would say – ‘Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact…’”

At this point, John realizes that the hands were slowly tightening again around his windpipe – and he cannot help but to stare into those remorseless icy blue eyes. All the fight in him had long fled, and that familiar panicky feeling of earlier sets in as he tries desperately to breathe against the pressure. 

“He liked to watch it happen. Watching people turn into  _ things.  _ You see. And – I do have to concur that it does have some merit.”

It seems to take forever; every second feels like an eternity – the pain – the rising panic – the narrowing of his vision – the hypoxia – oh god – please let him live! Rosie! 

“And off we pop –”

Suddenly, Mycroft dashes him violently against the concrete wall of the cell and John slides down onto the ground – dazed – weakened – gasping for air. So much pain. Everywhere. And then Mycroft squats down and whispers. “Dr. Watson – or should I say – John – if you ever lay a finger on my brother again – you will wish that I had ended you here and now. Is that understood?” 

All John could do is to nod – and sob as Mycroft leaves the cell – as quietly as he had entered it.

***

“You did something.” Sherlock accuses Lestrade when the DI sits down next to his hospital bed the next day.

“Morning to you too, Sherlock.” Lestrade sighs.

Sherlock can see that Gavin has had very little sleep last night. Smith probably had sang like a bird as soon as he had started talking. That would be a safe wager. Egos like him would certainly relish that. And… there is the guilt. Lestrade is carrying it. By the bucketful. Evident by the deepened creases on his forehead. Sherlock leans forward a bit – well – as far as his ribs would allow. Breathing is still slightly painful. He tries another tactic. “How’s John?”

“Alive.” Lestrade shrugs. There is a flash of glee(?) on his countenance that disappears almost immediately. “Sorry I didn’t bring you any breakfast.”

“Oh – I had the usual hospital slop.” 

There is a silence, as Lestrade appears to contemplate something that Sherlock could not quite make heads or tails of. Finally, he requests. “Sherlock. I do want to ask you something. Are you willing to prosecute John? For assault?”

Sherlock is stunned. “Why-why would I do that?” He shakes his head. “No – he had every right –”

“Sherlock. Listen to me.” Lestrade leans forward from his armchair. His voice is firm with conviction. “You did not deserve any of that. I am sure your brother has talked to you about it already. And – I am also sure that he has already given the lecture about not using self-sacrificing actions to catch bloody psychopaths that just won’t stop blathering...” 

“But – Mary… she demanded it. That I go to hell to save –”

Sherlock falters when he sees Lestrade give him a sad little smile. The DI gets up, and lightly rests his palm over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh… Sherlock – frankly I don’t think he’s worth it. Certainly not – this...” Gravely, he then adds. “Yesterday could have gone horribly, horribly wrong – you do realize that? If your brother hadn’t gotten there in time?”

Weakly, Sherlock dabs at an eye as he sniffs. God. All he’s been wanting to do is cry since he had gotten up this morning. John abandoning him in his hour of need. Mycroft saving him from certain death in a nick of time. He murmurs – feeling absolutely pathetic. “But… Lestrade – he’s your friend too.”

The DI’s face darkens. “Not for long, I am afraid. I think we ought to hold our friends to higher standards. He’s certainly not the man I thought he was. And – don’t say anything to him – but I reported him to the Social Services Office as soon as I went back to the Met yesterday.”

“For what?” Sherlock is again at a loss for words. 

“Vicious assault of a vulnerable adult.” There is some grim satisfaction on Lestrade’s face.

“But – Rosie…?”

“That’s exactly why I reported him. Do you think that his unpleasant tendencies are limited to you only? And of course there is the unavoidable fact that John let slip that he hit you hard in that recorded interview. I am a mandatory reporter – Sherlock. I have to do these things. It’s my sodding job – as you know.”

“I won’t say a word.” Sherlock nods – still feeling like he is in some terrible dream – trying to process everything at once. 

Lestrade sighs again. Painfully. After glancing at his phone.

“You have to go down to the Met?” Sherlock inquires.

“Yeah. Soon. Bugger. Smith wasn’t quite finished yesterday even though we had a handful of interview sessions. I would be happy not to spend another second with him ever again. There are things that even I am happier not knowing.”

“Mary did ask for me to go to hell and to make sure that I meant it.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“Sherlock – can you please do me a giant favour?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop sacrificing your life. Please. I don’t care if it’s to save our sorry lives – or to catch the latest serial killer… You’ve done enough.”

Sherlock smiles wryly. “I will try my best.”

“Your brother is coming by later?”

“Yeah. I am going home today.” Oh, damn – he still hasn’t decided if he is going to take Mycroft’s offer.

“Good. And Sherlock – one last thing?”

“What is it, Lestrade?”

“Your brother does care for you. A lot. Believe me. You should have seen him yesterday while you were asleep.” And then Lestrade whispers. “And – we’ve been through a lot together over the years – Sherlock. You are my friend. I know it may be hard to believe – but there’s a world outside of John Watson too.” 

With that, Gordon grabs his things and heads out the door for another grisly session with Smith. Even Sherlock doesn’t envy him. To be fair – it had been quite enough to be suffocated by that nasty man. And to be laughed at when Faith had shown up. What’s up with that anyways? The two Faiths… He can still hear the splintering of the lock when Mycroft had kicked the door in. Mycroft… his saviour. And possibly – his dark avenger. Even Lestrade had played his part. 

Sherlock rolls onto his back and sighs. 

***

“You are looking better today.” Mycroft remarks when he sees his brother – sitting up for the first time on the bed. 

“It hurts less today, Mycroft.” Sherlock scrutinizes his brother closely – noting that Mycroft is immaculately dressed as always in a three-piece suit. The tie is new… A flattering shade of red. Had a good night’s sleep. Exuding an aura of self-satisfaction… hm. John-related. Lestrade had said John was alive earlier… What did big brother do? Beat John up? Scare him a bit? It’s hard to deduce. Both? And that grim little grin on the DI’s face… is it possible that Lestrade had supported whatever it was that Mycroft had done? Lestrade?!? The respectable man of law and order! 

A gloved hand touches his cheek. Sherlock leans into the touch reflexively. The smell of expensive leather. The affection that seems to openly radiate from Mycroft’s eyes. Has that always been there? This… sentiment? The thumb lazily traces his cheekbone.

“Good. You ready to get out of here?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock nods as Mycroft hands him a change of clothes. 

“Can you manage on your own?”

Sherlock nods. He shakily gets up from the bed – having only left it to use the adjoining loo. In it, he gingerly strips himself off his hospital garments and carefully dresses in the clothing that Mycroft had brought. He looks bloody awful. As awful as he feels internally. Emaciated. The only food he had eaten within recent memory had been a few bites of barely palatable breakfast today, some nibbles of dinner yesterday and the birthday cake he had shared with Mycroft. Otherwise, he had deliberately been starving himself to look ill for Smith. His face is still bruised and swollen – there are footprints on his chest and other colourful marks all over – all in different stages of healing. He needs a shave – badly. His eyes are crusty and red and puffy from crying. And suddenly the prospect of staying at Baker Street seems to be more than he could bear. He would be alone. Again. Waiting for a John that will never show up and have adventures like the good old days. How far that seemed now… an eternity ago. His vision blurs when he hears knocking at the door.

“Sherlock?” 

When he doesn’t reply – the door opens and suddenly Sherlock feels arms around him. God. He feels so pathetic. Breaking down like this. Bawling like a toddler. On Mycroft’s shoulder. His snot and tears are getting onto Mycroft’s bespoke clothes, but his brother doesn’t seem to care. He isn’t even sure why he is crying… For John? For their friendship? The fact that he would probably never see Rosie again? After everything he had done to try and save John’s life? Salvage their friendship? 

“There, there…” Mycroft says – soothingly. “Sherlock. Lock. Sh… It’s alright. Everything will be okay – I promise.” 

A soft cotton handkerchief is being applied to Sherlock’s face – wiping away his secretions. 

“I don’t want to be alone.” Sherlock sniffs. 

“You won’t be. Lock.”

“I don’t think I can go back to Baker Street right now.” 

“Then you can stay with me. For however long as you may wish it.” His brother says earnestly. 

“You mean it.” Sherlock is surprised. But then again – did his brother not say that ‘I’ll always be there for you.’ not too long ago? The words seem to echo faintly in the distance. A bare wisp of memory. Why are his recollections so hazy? Especially when it pertains to Mycroft? Oh. Now here’s an astute observation… hmm… now what could he possibly do with this information? What could this possibly mean? This requires more thinking. 

“Of course I do.” One of Mycroft’s arms had slid down to his waist. A comforting and steadying presence. “Come on, let’s go.” 


	3. Chapter 3

“I didn’t know you cooked, brother.” Sherlock takes the spoon and surveys the contents of his soup. An assortment of vegetables, bits of noodle, generous chunks of chicken and garnish. In comparison to the culinary delights of the hospital – this is a gourmet meal. His brother must have made this… yesterday? In anticipation of his.... arrival? 

“I suppose it never occurred to you that I have other hobbies besides eating myself to obesity, little brother.” His brother remarks lightly as he tackles a salmon salad. 

God. Where did the diet jokes even originate from? Sherlock ponders as he blows at his spoonful of soup. He doesn’t even know. Mycroft doesn’t even indulge in cake that often. It had just become something reflexive he does to provoke a response. A sensitive spot to poke and prod at. A mechanism to keep him from coming too close? But – regardless, he finds himself disliking the hint of self-deprecation in Mycroft’s tone. He looks at his brother for a quick second, noting that his suit seems to be a little large for him. Lost weight then. Unintentional. Stress. Over… him? And Mycroft hadn’t even been overweight to begin with. 

He sips at the soup. It’s good. Fantastic. Light fare for his malnourished body. A hobby cooking may be, but Sherlock knows from a brief glance around the kitchen while Mycroft had been getting lunch ready that this isn’t a hobby he partakes in often. There is an eclectic mix of takeaway flyers stacked neatly on the counter and stuck via magnets to the fridge. All the groceries in the fridge are recently purchased. Probably yesterday. Or even this morning. The cooking utensils and equipment are not worn down by frequent use. So… Mycroft is cooking for  _ him. _ A comforting warmth (not just from the soup) seems to travel through him. 

There is so much he just doesn’t understand. Ever since his return from dismantling Moriarty’s web, he’s been feeling unmoored. He had been naive to think that everything would return to normal upon his return. So much had happened since John had gotten married. The true identity of Mary. Magnussen. Rosie… That would hurt the most… not being able to see her. See her grow up. And… John. Looking admiringly at him. Calling him ‘brilliant’. Laughing together at something ridiculous. What did Lestrade say earlier? That ‘there is a world outside John Watson’. Sherlock has lost his niche in the world. 

When his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, Mycroft asks. “Want more?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I think I better go nap, brother – I just… feel off.” 

“You know where the guestroom is, brother. Text me if you need anything.” Mycroft stands up from his chair before collecting all the dirty dishes and utensils to wash.

***

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is audible from Sherlock’s phone. She sounds worried. “How are you doing?” 

Sherlock, still lying on the bed in Mycroft’s darkened guestroom, replies. “I am doing better, Mrs. Hudson. Was discharged from the hospital today.”

“You didn’t come home to Baker Street?”

“No. I am at my brother’s. I couldn’t…” Sherlock swallows his sentence. Mrs. Hudson has no idea about what has transpired between John and himself. Just thinking about it makes him want to weep. 

“And… what ever happened to John?” Mrs. Hudson inquires – sounding perplexed. Whether at the fact that Sherlock is currently at Mycroft’s or at John’s current situation – Sherlock cannot discern. “He found Mary’s DVD yesterday, cried over it and ran out – and then today – when I went over to his flat, he could hardly speak. His neck was covered by a rather thick scarf. He said he caught a bug – but…”

“But what?” Sherlock finds himself curious. 

“I think the scarf is covering something. Rather than keeping him warm.”

A picture forms in Sherlock’s mind. Two leather-clad hands. One neck. Smith’s from yesterday. Oh. Big brother’s hands must have been getting quite a workout. Damn. Mycroft. Scary, frightening man!

“Mrs. Hudson, I was lying in a hospital bed all day and night for the last few days. I really wouldn’t know. Maybe he got into a fight or something. You know that John likes to go to the pub when he’s upset.”

Refusing to be deterred, Mrs. Hudson continues her line of thought. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that nasty rich man that had been arrested yesterday for all those awful murders, wouldn’t it? The one who was on the telly the other day, saying that John saved his life? John didn’t come see you yesterday – did he?”

“No.” Sherlock almost croaks his answer. John didn’t come to save him. Mycroft did. “No, he didn’t.” He reiterates more clearly. 

“You were in danger, weren’t you? That this was all supposed to be part of Mary’s plan?” Ah. Mrs. Hudson is a shrewd lady. Of course. She had been with him when he had watched the DVD – and most likely – she had guided John into watching it. To get him to understand what Sherlock had done. For him. “You went to hell, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock can feel his eyelids pricking with tears again. There is no point in lying. Not if she had figured out that much. “Yes – I did what Mary told me to, Mrs. Hudson. I almost died.”

“Someone else saved you then.”

“Yes.” He sniffs. “My brother. He… he figured it out in time.” 

There is a stunned silence on the other end. Sherlock wipes at his eyes with his sleeve.

“I-I was wrong then.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice is barely audible from the speakerphone. 

“Wrong about what?” 

She sounds almost embarrassed. “Your brother. I kicked him out and called him a reptile before John watched the DVD yesterday. But I see now that he is not.”

No. Mycroft is not a reptile. Sure, he can be overbearing at times, but… he’s the only one that has always been there for him. Regardless of what ever stupid thing Sherlock had just done. Unconditional. And it went beyond duty – didn’t it? The quiet and carefully modulated rage in Mycroft’s voice yesterday when he had been having that little talk with Smith complete with fingers around the murderer’s neck. And… paying John a little visit yesterday to express his displeasure. ‘Your loss would break my heart.’ His brother’s words reverberate in Sherlock’s mind. 

Mrs. Hudson sighs. “I guess when you think you know people – it’s when they show you that you don’t. Well, Sherlock – take it easy. And I will see you at Baker Street soon.”

“Alright, Mrs. Hudson. Goodbye.”

Sherlock hangs up and checks his texts. Zero from John. Two from Molly. One informing him that John no longer wants Rosie to see him. A pang strikes his chest. He had seen this coming, but the anticipation does not seem to soften the blow in any way. And two more from Mycroft – just now. 

_ Brother mine. Do you need anything? MH _

_ I just walked by your room. MH _

_ Yes. Come in. SH _

His fingers had sent the text without him even having been aware of it. The door creaks open a minute later, and big brother emerges – dressed in his silky pyjamas. Mycroft walks over to switch on the lamp, bathing the room in a muted orangey light, and sits down on the bed. 

Big brother. His saviour. His constant. People may come and go, but Mycroft would always be here. He sees that now. He had been so blind. Perhaps… blinded by Watsons. Would Mycroft really have let him die in Eastern Europe? Sherlock knows deep down in his heart(?) now that Mycroft wouldn’t have. He crawls over to the edge of the bed to join his brother. 

Lestrade had been right. There is a life outside of John Watson. More wetness seems to leak from his eyes. Tears of shame. He had been unpleasant to Mycroft too many times to count. He remembers pushing his brother against the doorframe when he had been high out of his mind – and Mycroft had never even fought back. And – he is positive that there are similar such experiences in the past – when Mycroft had spent his evenings making a second career out of fishing Sherlock out from drug dens – with each locale growing more and more squalid by the day. The days before John Watson. Gah! Why can’t he remember? It’s as if his brain is filled with impressions of memories, rather than actual ones.

*** 

Mycroft sighs – it pains him to see his little brother in such a state. Like a battered wife from some common domestic abuse situation. Weeping over a man that he had given up almost everything for, and justifying the violence committed against him. Of course, he is aware that Sherlock himself is not a perfect being – but nothing justified a beating where one of London’s most notorious serial killers had to put an end to. He really had been too kind to this Dr. Watson and his wife. He had been kind for his brother’s sake – but he sees now that it had been a big mistake. 

Before Sherlock’s official return from the dead – Mycroft could still remember how happy – how delighted – Sherlock had been at the prospect of returning to London. Returning to a life with John Watson. And Mycroft had been too kind to say anything to dash his brother’s hopes. He hates this – how his brother’s emotional well-being appears to be tied to this one unworthy little man. Did Sherlock ever feel more than friendship for Dr. Watson? A million dollar question that Mycroft ponders upon frequently. Or is there another explanation? 

He is surprised when Sherlock’s hands reach out for his own. His brother’s hands feel wet (from the tears) and warm in his. Sherlock appears to be studying his hands – studying them with the same intent and thoroughness that he typically reserves for an interesting specimen. 

“Mrs. Hudson told me that John could barely speak.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet – neutral. 

So. Sherlock  _ knows  _ then. Is he going to tell Mycroft off for manhandling the centre of his universe? But Sherlock simply continues to look thoughtful, his fingertips gently caressing the skin of Mycroft’s palms – tracing the creases, before moving onto the digits. 

It feels startlingly intimate. 

“Molly texted me just before you did. She says that John has forbidden me from seeing Rosie…” His voice is devoid of emotion – as if he is reciting a fact – but his eyes glisten with overwhelming emotion. 

Mycroft has an inkling about how much the littlest Watson weighs in Sherlock’s heart. Although, he himself could never understand it. The only child he had ever cared about. Adored. Lies in front of him now. 

And – he almost gasps when Sherlock suddenly flips his hand, interlocking their digits together. Mycroft stares and stares at their entwined fingers – his brain unable to compute this development, while Sherlock simply says. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? To say that I am alone? You –” His brother trails off – as if unsure of how to proceed. “You… were always there.” He swallows. “You were always there for me.”

Yes. Mycroft thinks – and instead of expressing it verbally, he reaches up and slides his free digits into his brother’s curls – which still are in the same disastrous state as they have been in the hospital. His brother relaxes visibly under the touch and he looks at Mycroft with such  _ trust _ that it really does take his breath away. What has changed? Mycroft muses. He hasn’t seen Sherlock look at him like that… well since childhood. Lowering his hand, he gently cups Sherlock’s stubbly cheek and his brother leans into his touch – practically purring. 

“I don’t know why…” Sherlock starts again. “Why didn't I realize this sooner? My brain – it’s not working right… All my memories of you are so hazy – like wisps of smoke. I try to catch them, to see further – but they vanish – leaving an echo of the experience. And all this… feeling? These emotions. It’s like someone lifted the ground from under my feet – and I am falling… falling into an abyss. All these thoughts, these dreams – I don’t… understand them. They make no sense. I remember crying, Mycroft – begging for a dog. Father said no. He was allergic. But… we did have a dog. This… this – doesn’t make any sense?!? Is this what goldfish feel all the time? Overwhelmed? Drowning in a sea of information they cannot comprehend?”

This is… fascinating. Mycroft lets Sherlock’s head drop onto his lap, while their hands remain linked together. It’s as if little brother’s mind is fracturing – all those defenses that Sherlock had meticulously built in his youth to protect himself from severe emotional trauma are collapsing in a most spectacular manner. But what had triggered this? Those mechanisms had been firmly in place ever since Sherlock had been an adolescent. He sighs. Of course. He should have realized. The East Wind. The one responsible for what Sherlock had become. He would have to take care though – and tread carefully then. That trust shining in Sherlock’s eyes. He would like to keep it this time. 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock looks up. He sits up as well for the first time since Mycroft had entered the room. “Can I?” 

He doesn’t know what he’s saying ‘yes’ to, but he ends up with an armful of little brother. A hug. Mycroft holds his brother close. Sherlock’s head rests against his shoulder. A wave of affection courses throughout Mycroft, perfusing his body with a delicious sort of warmth. 

“Thank you.” The words feel weird in Sherlock’s mouth. “But – you didn’t have to – do all of that.”

“No, Sherlock – I had to. Someone had to. I should have done it from the start. When you came back. I should have known he would have hurt you again. Leopards don’t change their spots. Oh Lock – you grow too attached to your pets, and you’ve gotten hurt – more than once.”

“You mean – Redbeard?” Sherlock asks, curious. But apprehensive. 

“Lock.” Mycroft smiles sadly at him. “That’s what I called you when you were a child. A toddler. You adored me. You followed me everywhere. You even slept with me in my bed. We would go watch the stars on clear nights with Father’s telescope. You knew them all. The constellations. The stars. The planets. The galaxies. You wanted to know if there was life out there, beyond ourselves. Be a pirate of the cosmos. Sailing the lightyears of the extraterrestrial vastness in search of plunder. And… I adored you too. Beyond measure.”

And Sherlock could see it. Himself running after a chubby young boy with much longer legs than he had possessed at the time – Mycroft. Underneath the darkened starlit skies in the countryside. His brother carrying a telescope, a tarp and purloined goods from the kitchen. So much happiness and laughter. An adventure every day. His brother lifting him up and swinging him in a circle before kissing his cheek. Sherlock running into Mycroft’s room during a scary hailstorm – and being welcomed heartily with open arms. The memories solidify one-by-one in Sherlock’s mind, strengthening decaying synapses long unused and forgotten – and in their edges – the periphery – he sees a solemn faced girl. Her eyes blank. Unreadable. That looks oddly like – Faith! The one he had walked all night with. Not Smith’s daughter… but his… His mouth falls open with shock. 

“Sister.” Sherlock whispers. “Mycroft. I saw her. She was Faith.”

“I realize that now. Brother… I’ve been terribly remiss recently. But – if the reality you had constructed for yourself has failed, then I think it’s time that you learned the truth. The truth that you tried to hide from for so long…” Mycroft gently strokes Sherlock’s back. “But we can do that tomorrow. I think you’ve had enough for today.”

“Mm… Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs. And oddly enough – he is happy to let the sleeping dogs lie – for now. His brother will tell him – eventually. Or, his brain will fill him in. Either-or. 

He likes this. Being held like this. He nuzzles his face against Mycroft’s neck enjoying the scent of whatever fancy body wash and cologne that he uses. Bergamot. Cedarwood. Hints of fruit. And the feeling of the soft silk of his pyjamas brushing against his skin. Everything feels so good… and so right. How Mycroft’s hands touch him. So tenderly(?) and reverently. As if Sherlock is something precious. Those same hands that had been used to choke a serial killer and someone who Sherlock had once thought had been his best friend. His only friend. 

Is this what he had been seeking for all this time? Affection? Attention? While hiding his damaged hurting self under a veneer of functional sociopathy? Little knowing that whatever he had been longing for had been right next to him – this entire time? What misfortune – what pain – had befallen him in his youth to make him forget everything that he had once held dear? 

“Perhaps we should go to bed, brother – it’s getting late.” Mycroft says reluctantly after half an hour had gone by. 

“I will – see you at breakfast?” Sherlock asks – rather lamely. Of course he will see Mycroft at breakfast – it’s Sunday tomorrow. Even the British government has weekends off.

“Of course.” 

Sherlock is bereft when Mycroft coaxes him off his lap. He sighs when Mycroft caresses his curls once more, before leaving the room. The sadness is still there, but there is hope now. Wrapped in a warm brotherly hug. He sniffs at himself and makes a face. Fuck – had Mycroft endured him smelling like a hospital during all this time? He should have showered before he had taken a nap. Certainly, there is no time like the present. He gets up, finds a generous assortment of his own clothing in the wardrobe, takes what he needs and heads to the adjoining loo to wash the stench away. 


	4. Chapter 4

When the door to his bedroom creaks open in the middle of the night, Mycroft turns and grins to himself when he sees the familiar silhouette walk over to his king-sized bed. Just like old times. The mattress dips slightly, and Mycroft slowly reaches over – hugging his brother around his middle. Spooning him. Sherlock emits a small sigh of pleasure as Mycroft inhales to take in the scent of freshly-washed curls. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” Sherlock breaks the silence. “Couldn’t get comfortable, Mycroft.”

“Pain?” Mycroft inquires, knowing that Sherlock hadn’t taken any painkillers within the past day or so. 

“Tolerable.”

“Am I hugging you too hard?”

“I won’t break, Mycroft.” When the hold slackens, Sherlock says. “It’s okay, brother – you can keep doing what you were doing.”

“Don’t want to cause you any more pain.” Mycroft murmurs, but he pulls his brother closer to his torso. 

“You are not.” Sherlock quickly reassures him – feeling a strange sensation of fondness rise in his chest as he settles comfortably into Mycroft’s embrace. 

“Then you should sleep. Goodnight, Lock.” 

Sherlock could feel lips brush against his curls. 

A goodnight kiss. 

He dreams. 

Of a little boy chasing dragonflies under summer skies. Mycroft cleaning a scrape and affixing a bandage onto a crying Sherlock’s wounded knee before pressing a neat little kiss upon it. Stealing an apple pie from the kitchen windowsill and sharing his ill-gotten gains with his brother in the safety of the woods. Him sobbing when an equally devastated Mycroft tells him that he has to leave for school. And that Sherlock wouldn’t be allowed to go with him. He had clung on for as long as he could to Mycroft’s leg before Mummy had to forcefully remove him. A grave-faced Mycroft finding him strung-out on drugs in some sordid flat. An exasperated Mycroft telling him – no – begging him to do better. And underneath all of that – the perpetual worry and fear in his brother’s eyes.  _ I can’t lose you, Lock. Your loss will break my heart. _

Then, Mycroft standing in front of him – resplendent in a new three-piece suit. With a smile. For him. A genuine one. Looking so handsome. His blue eyes shining with an adoration(?) that Sherlock had never seen before from him. With an emotion that he doesn’t quite fathom. Mycroft walks over to him, and gently cups his cheek – and  _ oh-my-god _ a kiss. A toe-curling one. One that would give Sherlock plenty to think about for a long time. Nothing like those uninspired dry pecks that Janine had given him. 

All of sudden – Sherlock is up. Awake. The sun streaming through the curtains. One of Mycroft’s arms is still slung over his abdomen. God. That kiss. What was that? 

Does he want to kiss Mycroft? 

He turns a little to get a better view of his slumbering brother – and he realizes that his pyjama bottoms are sticky. Sherlock could feel the embarrassment burn on his face. It has been a long time since his transport had betrayed him like this. His libido had always been on the low side; hence, easily contained with some quality time with his hand. And to have this happen on Mycroft’s bed? Of all places? He should leave to clean up his mess, but Mycroft’s arm makes it very difficult to extricate himself. It would make sense… that his fluctuating emotions are also going wreck havoc with his sex drive. Or rather, awaken it from its dormant state. He tries to roll away – but the arm reflexively tightens around his torso. 

“Lock – what’s wrong?” 

Mycroft is up now, evidently having noticed Sherlock’s distress. 

“It’s nothing.” His face reddens further, despite his success of keeping his tone level. He knows it’s a normal physiological reaction, but when he pairs it with his dream...

His brother sighs deeply. “Brother. You do know that between the two of us – there is very little that we haven’t done. Nothing will surprise me at this point.”

Things like murder, kidnapping, dying, treason and etcetera dance through Sherlock’s mind – but this is certainly something new. Incest. Going further than the brotherly bonding that they had been engaging in the day before. But he had to admit that he had rather liked the way Mycroft had looked at him in that dream. The kiss too. He wants it. Sherlock realizes. He’s probably wanted it since yesterday – when he had been admiring Mycroft’s hands. Or maybe even when he had found out from Mrs. Hudson about what Mycroft had done. For him. 

“Nothing at all?” Sherlock asks – tentative. He flips around, so that he can see Mycroft’s face. 

His brother winks at him. “You can try.” 

Emboldened, Sherlock plunges forward. “Not even if I said that I wanted to kiss you?” 

“I kissed you before you fell asleep – on two separate occasions.” Mycroft smiles. But he understands what Sherlock means. His brother means an actual kiss. The kind found in romantic entanglements. He hadn’t been expecting it – but somehow, he isn’t surprised. 

A natural progression of affairs. 

Sherlock reaches for one of Mycroft’s hands – and Mycroft lets him take it. 

Damn. Are we really doing this? Mycroft muses. Is this not too soon? Going from archenemies to lovers in a span of less than two days? He sits up against the headboard, and Sherlock follows suit. He then has a thought. “Should we not brush our teeth first? Or rather – should we jump in and figure out if our morning halitoses is tolerable to the other?” 

He earns a snort from Sherlock. Their eyes meet and Mycroft knows that it will happen sooner rather than later. His brother crawls his way back into Mycroft’s lap and slowly tilts his head toward him – initially letting their foreheads touch. Then their noses slot together and soon Sherlock’s plush soft lips are caressing against his own. It is immediately obvious that Sherlock has never kissed anyone – or at least kissed anyone for real. Mycroft still remembers those old days where his brother had been going around with that other woman – Janine? So – he takes the lead – gently nipping, brushing – teaching his brother a whole new genre of dance. He uses one hand to guide Sherlock’s head, and the other still remains interlaced within his brother’s fingers. It is sweet. The sweetest kiss he’s ever had. Mycroft wanting nothing more than to show his brother that affection, care and tenderness should be the basis or rather the foundation of whatever they are building. 

Sherlock is smiling when they finally break apart. And really, it is his smile that puts the majority of concerns that Mycroft has about embarking on such a relationship with his brother to bed. He knows that he would never hurt his brother – like Dr. Watson had done. Sherlock’s dear face is still badly bruised thanks to the fists of one lousy doctor, but fortunately none of the cuts on his lips had split open during their kiss. Mycroft has a sudden urge to literally kiss away all the nastiness that had been inflicted on his brother. So he leans back in and brushes affectionate kisses against his brother’s facial bruises and cuts – and when he finishes his task, Sherlock has his arms wrapped tightly around Mycroft – and Mycroft could feel wetness against his skin. Tears. 

“I am sorry, brother – it seems that anything emotional sets off the waterworks. It’s rather –”

“Don’t. Lock. You’ve got years of repressed emotion to work through. It’s okay to cry. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah. When I was a child.” Sherlock grins, enjoying very much the attention lavished upon him. He reaches up to wipe at his eyes – marveling at the degree of sentiment his ‘caring is not an advantage’ brother is managing to express. 

“So.” Mycroft asks a moment later. “What was it that you were so embarrassed about earlier?”

“I-I had a wet dream.” His emissions had long dried in his pants.

“Is that it?” 

“It involved you kissing me.”

“Fascinating. You liked it, I take it.”

Sherlock nods. He then adds – almost shyly. “You looked so handsome in your suit.”

“You are pulling my leg.” Mycroft cannot help but remark. 

“No. Brother.” Sherlock looks crestfallen. “I am an idiot.” 

And Mycroft wants to kick himself for uttering this one lousy sentence – after having spent all that effort to earn a happy smile from his brother. 

Mycroft uses a finger to lift his brother’s chin up. “Lock, look at me.”

Sherlock does. 

“You are not an idiot. We’ve both managed to hurt each other through the years, and it won’t be fixed in a day – as much as I would like it to be.” Mycroft wipes away a tear threatening to escape from Sherlock’s lacrimal duct. “It’s okay, dearest mine – we will work through everything – together.” 

“Dearest?” Sherlock asks cautiously. 

“Yes – that’s who you are. To me.” Mycroft is rather amazed at how easy this ‘sentiment’ leaves his mouth. “Always. Even when you are driving me insane. Like the past few days.”

The corners of Sherlock’s lips quirk slowly upwards. 

“I am rather jealous that dream-me had a kiss before I did.” Mycroft admits.

“Reality is so much better.” Sherlock nuzzles at Mycroft’s neck. “There really is no comparison, brother mine.”

They cuddle for a bit, before Mycroft’s stomach starts rumbling – and they reluctantly leave the bed to go prepare for their day. 

***

“Finally finished confessing, hm?” Sherlock greets Lestrade at the door.

“Hello to you too, Sherlock.” Lestrade sighs warily as he places his slightly damp coat and scarf on the ornate coat stand. “Yes. Finally. It took most of Saturday, but I think it’s safe to say that we’ve reached the end. The entire gamut of murders. Just… bloody awful. Creepy too! That man. I am glad he’s off the streets…”

Sherlock gives a mock-bow. “If it wasn’t for me, he would have continued his hobby undetected till the end of his life. His scheme was that good.”

“I know. I know. Thanks again for giving me the worst case of my career.” The DI then fixes a critical eye on him. “You certainly do look better.” He appraises as Sherlock leads him into Mycroft’s spacious living room. 

“Yeah. I feel better.” Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

After Mycroft and he had left the bed, Sherlock had spent a long time in the loo, showering, shaving off all that beginning-to-itch stubble and putting his neglected curls to rights. Then he had gone back to the guest room and had spent a while pondering on what garments he should wear. Nothing fit him right – considering how much weight he had lost over the past weeks – but he had made do with what he could. A nice suit complete with a dark blue shirt that Mycroft had bought him a long time ago. He had smiled at his reflection in the mirror – despite the ugliness of his bruises and his lips which are still swollen and cut up. Still not fit for the public to see, but at least it is a marked improvement. 

During breakfast, he had enjoyed Mycroft’s discreet appreciative glances – even though his brother had teased him for spending so much time ‘primping’ upstairs. Just as he had enjoyed the look of his brother in ‘weekend’ attire – a casual ensemble that Sherlock suspects that Mycroft had worn for his viewing pleasure. A crisp white shirt, a woolen shawl-sweater with tasteful earthy shades and a pair of complementary light-coloured tightly-tailored trousers that showed off his bum. Sherlock had never realized how nice of a backside Mycroft had. And – now he could ogle Mycroft’s arse all he liked. 

“That’s… good. Very good. I was worried. You know. When I saw you yesterday. That’s why I came today to check up on you. Not just for the paperwork – I could have given that to you tomorrow.”

“Oh… uh, thanks. Lestrade.” Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with these emotions. He finds himself touched(?) by Lestrade’s concern. A foreign sensation – made stranger by the fact that he knows that Lestrade had shown his concern and care for him many times in the past. It just had never affected him like this. 

Suddenly – it doesn’t feel right to call him Lestrade. He calls John, ‘John’ and even Molly – ‘Molly’ – definitely not Watson or Hooper. Especially when Lestrade had been his oldest ‘friend’ – albeit one with an authoritative position. Lestrade had never been like John though. The copper had never hurt him physically, no matter how much Sherlock had riled him up. Never put him down when Sherlock had failed to appreciate and observe social mores. At most he would sigh and tell him off for his shenanigans in private. Like Mycroft – Lestrade had always wanted him to be better. Heck, Lestrade had even given him a bloody hug after his return from the Fall. Even Mrs. Hudson had wanted to brain him with a frying pan. Or at the very least – threaten him with one. 

“Did John contact you at all?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. And then he sighs. “No – Lestra-I mean Gordon-no-Gunther – oh! Greg.”

Greg laughs. “Ah – there we go. I knew we could get it right, someday. Not that it’s a big deal – mind you. I’ve gotten used to it. You could even call me Georgina all you want as long as you solve my cases.” 

He finds himself chuckling too. And then he adds forlornly. “Well,  _ Georgina,  _ John did communicate via Molly to me that he doesn’t want me to see Rosie anymore.”

Lestrade-no-Greg grins amusedly somewhat at bastardization of his name, but then shakes his head with gravity. “So – he’s a coward too. To not tell you this in person. I am curious – though – Sherlock. You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to. But – were you two ever a couple?”

God. Did he ever like John in that way? In the way he likes Mycroft? No. Before all of this mental upheaval – Sherlock had viewed himself as a brain housed in an organic transport. He had thought himself beyond the needs of the flesh. Although he can see now that this had been an illusion – maybe bordering on a delusion. Another convenient lie that he had told himself over the years. Even then, there’s no way that John ‘I-am-not-gay’ Watson would have wanted to be romantically linked with him. “No, we were never together like that. Never. And I never wanted us to be.”

“It sounds like a messy divorce to me.” Greg observes. “I am sorry about Rosie, though. It’s a shame. He did refuse to go to anger-management when I offered him the opportunity to do so before he left.”

“Greg.” Sherlock is surprised. And amazed. “You did something else to John – didn’t you – besides file a report?”

“You caught me. I had him tossed in a cell overnight for assault. Obviously couldn’t keep him there longer, as there are no formal charges against him. Thought he could have used a little quiet time to reflect.” 

“Mrs. Hudson told me he could hardly talk the next day.” 

“Perhaps a bug?” Greg shrugs rather innocently. “Lots of germs floating around in the winter, especially in prison.” More candidly he says – knowing that Sherlock has figured out what had happened. “You know – I am not one for vigilantism – but someone’s got to stop him. John – that is. If it’s not you – it will be someone else down the road that will bear the brunt of his uncontrollable emotions. I’ve seen it all the time – Sherlock – before I got assigned to focus on homicides. Even now – I see these cases where the abuser goes too far and kills their victim unintentionally. Domestic abuse. It’s rampart. And I know that you know that – you’ve helped me out with some of these unfortunate cases.”

Sherlock shakes his head in dismay. And guilt. “I don’t… I don’t want his life to be ruined. I kind of deserve-”

“Sherlock.” Greg’s tone grows both sharp and serious. “Please. Don’t let anyone treat you like that ever again. Believe me – I was there too when Mary decided to save your life. Bollocks to the vow you made at the wedding. It’s unreasonable. And if you asked your brother – I am sure he will say that it is the only decent thing for her to do. After everything. If John had kicked you in the wrong place – I might be standing over your gravestone right now. For real this time. If not anything else – it is rather fucked up that a serial killer had to put an end to the pummeling – isn’t it?” 

All he could do is weakly nod. When phrased in that manner – there is nothing else to say. 

“And if John’s life is ruined? It’s his own bloody damned fault. Not yours.” Greg almost growls, as he takes out the documentation for the Smith case and a clipboard from his briefcase. The copper takes a deep calming breath before handing the paperwork over to Sherlock. “Here. I will come back tomorrow to grab it. Or we can meet up somewhere else. Like at a nearby café. Or at Baker Street. Whatever is convenient for you.”

Sherlock looks on numbly as Greg prepares to trudge back out into the dreary snowy day.

***

“Ooh! Chinese food!” Sherlock sniffs the air in appreciation as he wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist in the kitchen. “I am not used to this, Mycroft – eating three square meals a day.” 

“Well, maybe you should start doing so.” Mycroft suggests as he pours some canola oil in a pan to heat up. 

“Mm… maybe.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled by Mycroft’s neck. 

Mycroft has every intention to cook things that Sherlock likes in order to whet his limited appetite. It’s almost shocking the amount of weight that his brother had managed to lose in a few short weeks. Opening a lid, Mycroft pulls out a plate of steamed halibut – fins, tail, eyes, bones and all – and discards the ginger and scallions stuffed within the fish before moving over to the sink with Sherlock in tow to drain the liquid. He pours some soy sauce and arranges fresh scallions over the fish before grabbing the pan of smoking oil – and pours it over the fish – making it sizzle loudly. 

“You did this too when we were younger.” His brother says thoughtfully. 

“The only differences being that I caught the fish with a net or Father’s fishing pole myself, and that I either used a fire or a stone to cook it out in the woods, little brother.”

Sherlock changes the topic. “Will you tell me more today? About everything? Like Redbeard?” 

“After dinner? I will tell you what happened to Redbeard. And I will tell you about our sister. That should be sufficient for you to be all caught up.” 

“That sounds adequate. Good.”

“Would you mind scooping us some rice from the cooker? We can set the table and feast – brother mine.” Mycroft requests as he washes his hands in the sink. 

“What do I get in return?” 

There is a delightful mischievousness in Sherlock’s tone that thrills Mycroft. It makes him beyond glad – seeing these glimmers of normalcy. He turns his head and kisses his brother fondly on the cheek. “That’s all you get – you menace. Now away with you.”

“Your menace.” Sherlock corrects, but he obediently goes – finding porcelain bowls in the dishwasher. “You called me that too when I was a child.”

“Accurate.” Mycroft smiles to himself as he goes to fetch the rest of the dishes he had made over the course of the afternoon. “In both recollection and nature.”

“Hmph. But you  _ like _ menaces.” Sherlock scoops out generous portions of white rice – feeling rather like this is a silly exchange that has happened many times in the distant past.

“I will not confirm or deny this statement of yours, Lock.”

In short order, the table is set with all the necessary accoutrements and Sherlock grins happily at the offerings. Besides the fish, there are spicy fried pork chops, an egg and tomato dish and a stir-fry of greens and mushrooms. Mycroft decants some fancy white wine and Sherlock stares at the unlit candle that Mycroft had placed on their small dining table. 

‘It’s more romantic, huh?’ Sherlock remembers Angelo saying a long time ago, after having left a candle between himself and John. And then John saying indignantly afterwards. ‘I’m not his date!’. He shakes his head and reaches for the lighter next to the squat pale candle. If he had cared back then – he might have been offended by John’s need to maintain his heterosexual identity. Sherlock lights the candle and earns a small smile from his brother. A date it is. His first real one with someone he adored. 

***

“So… Redbeard was my friend?” Sherlock is horrified. “My  _ human _ best friend. Like what John was to me? And then Eurus… made him disappear one day?” 

“I am afraid so, little brother.” Mycroft sounds pained. 

“So Father  _ was  _ allergic to dogs.” 

“Yes. He was. And in retrospect – a good thing. Your sister likely would have killed the dog as well…”

“Out of jealousy?” Sherlock is finding it hard to believe. His sister had been so young when Redbeard/Victor had vanished. But at the same time – remembering those eyes in his memories – it’s not entirely unbelievable. He had always had this unexplainable queer feeling when left alone with his sister – which had been one of the reasons why he had avoided her company. She had been brilliant… possibly more so than both him and Mycroft – but lacked something substantial. Something fundamental that Mycroft had in spades for him. Warmth. Affection. 

“Yes. She hated it. Not being at the centre of your attention, little brother.” 

“I liked being the centre of yours, though.” Sherlock hums when Mycroft runs his fingers soothingly through his curls – undoubtedly messing them up – but a small sacrifice to pay for being petted. “Still do.”

“I do as well.” Mycroft smiles affectionately down at him before adopting a more serious tone. “But back to the topic of our dear sister… I did check up on Sherrinford today – while you were filling out your documents for Lestrade. Its security has been severely compromised. The governor and the guards had completely disregarded my instructions and now they are all in her thrall. She’s been coming and going as she pleases from the island – from what I understand.”

“It’s like going back in time…” Sherlock muses – Eurus trying to seek him out – trying to get him to play with her as she had done in their childhood. “Now that I think about it – it’s like Eurus was trying to grab my attention again – as Faith.” And then he frowns. “If she’s been coming and going as you say – big brother – would she ever try and do something that would involve our parents?”

“On the balance of probability – little brother – it seems unlikely. She has a fascination with you – and only you. But I see what you mean. The question of whether or not we should inform our parents about Eurus’ continued existence.”

“I think it would be kinder if you told our parents about her existence, rather than in the case they hear about it from another source. Since there is no way we can figure out exactly what she’s been up to outside her confinement.” 

Mycroft lets out a long sigh. That is a conversation that he would never be ready to have. Telling his brother all of this had been difficult enough. “That will have to wait until later. I already put in the orders to rectify the situation at Sherrinford, but it probably won’t happen until tomorrow considering that it’s Sunday. And then – I will have to go down there this week to ensure everything is secure. Would you like to go see her?”

“I guess.” Sherlock nods. It would be his brotherly duty to go. He might as well go see for himself what has become of their sister. 

“Then I will make arrangements for the both of us.” Mycroft looks hesitant for a few seconds before continuing. “And... there is another thing. She met Moriarty for five minutes – unsupervised. A few years back.”

“Mycroft!?!” 

“Not the wisest decision that I’ve made, I have to admit – but we do make use of our sister by having her analyze data for threats. For her work, we provide rewards. That was one of them.” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me about this before? When we were trying to end Moriarty?” Sherlock could feel tears starting to form again. This time from betrayal. He wants to escape, but Mycroft maintains his hold on him. Gently.

Mycroft’s eyes look imploringly at him. “I am sorry, Lock. I really really am.” Under the ambient lighting of the living room, Mycroft suddenly appears more drained and older as he speaks. Continuing, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve failed you too often to count, little brother. Sometimes I wondered – if life would have been easier if I had helped you process the trauma in a healthier manner. Rather than letting your brain warp and repress everything that reminded you of Victor. And Eurus.” Mycroft breaks to take a breath before determinedly plunging onwards. “I was devastated… you know when I realized what you had done when I returned home from school during the summer – and in the process you seemed to have forgotten everything good that had happened to you as well as the negative. Including me.” Mycroft hangs his head. “I was a coward, brother mine. I was afraid – you know – that you would resent me for reminding you of the tragedy that you had tried so hard to erase. So I chose to do nothing. Clearly as I’ve aged – nothing has changed in the cowardly department – when I contemplated whether or not to find a way to tell you the truth when we were putting together our final plans to rid the world of Moriarty. You see – I was so happy that you were talking to me again – making plans, having a bit of fun together – that I was afraid of the consequences of throwing such a bomb into the mix.” 

Sherlock is alarmed when Mycroft laughs – bitterly. Almost in a broken sort of manner. “As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about you resenting me for trying to meddle with your memories – you grew to despise me anyways as you entered adulthood. Relegating me to the status of archenemy. And after John had taken you back into his life after your return to London – it was as if nothing had changed from the original status quo. As if none of the experiences that we had shared before the Fall mattered to you. At all.”

There is a silence before Sherlock speaks, using his hand to wipe at the wetness in his eyes. “The mind is a strange thing, brother. Until I met Faith or rather our sister – it seems that any ‘good’ memory that I have of you doesn’t consolidate in my brain. They were like wisps of smoke. If I tried to grab at it to probe it further – it would just vanish – and I wasn’t even aware of this until the day you saved me from Smith. It makes me wonder now that in my desperation to forget everything related to Victor and Eurus – my brain got used to repressing content involving my childhood. You – Mycroft – were an integral part of that so I suspect that most memories pertaining to you ends up being shoved into the depths of my subconscious and subsequently forgotten. But now the memories are surfacing. Piece by piece.”

But Sherlock could see why Mycroft hadn’t told him. A mind is a stubborn thing. It wouldn’t have been easy to cut through the years worth of coping mechanisms that his brain had efficiently employed to protect him from the truth. Back in those days, Sherlock had been paranoid and sensitive about Mycroft’s heavy-handed meddling with his life – and he is sure that any attempts to mess with his remembrances of the past would have led to a not-so-good outcome. 

“Am I… forgiven?” Mycroft asks contritely – after the passage of what seemed to be forever. 

Sherlock slides his hand into Mycroft’s short hair, using his fingers to gently caress – feeling the contours of the bone underneath. “Hm… I don’t know.” The worry and fear(?) in those blue eyes (how could Sherlock ever have thought that his brother was an unfeeling person!?) makes him feel terrible about teasing.

So he settles for letting his lips come into contact with Mycroft’s. It takes a moment for his brother to catch on – but soon they are having an ardent snog on the couch. Sherlock carefully catalogues the data of Mycroft’s lips and he gasps when his brother licks at his own. When Mycroft’s tongue comes into contact with his, a most electrifying tingle spreads throughout Sherlock’s body. The muscles tangle in a most sensual manner as Mycroft educates Sherlock on the delights of the French Kiss. Sherlock doesn’t even know how long they have been kissing, but soon they have separated and are taking in great gulps of air – before starting anew. They kiss and kiss – as if each unit could absolve them from their sins committed against the other. Each offering forgiveness. Benediction. When they finally stop, Sherlock rests his head under his brother’s cheek.

Mycroft’s arms tighten possessively around Sherlock as he watches his exhausted brother – feeling a tenderness that makes his own eyes suspiciously moist. He is lucky. He knows that much. That he is allowed to have this; to be with Sherlock like this. To be remembered. To be forgiven. And he hopes one day – that he will be loved. The look of betrayal on Sherlock’s face had cut him to the core. And had filled him with a fear that he had never known before. It’s funny – how being in such a romantic relationship had never crossed his mind until Sherlock had expressed a wish this morning to kiss him – and now the idea of not being in one is completely unthinkable. Possibly incompatible with life because for him – Sherlock had always been essential. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello Mycroft.” A freshly showered Sherlock blinks down at him after having crawled his way onto the bed and over Mycroft’s torso. 

Mycroft simply reaches up to play with his brother’s ever-so-enticing curls. He finds that he rather enjoys having Sherlock lie on top of him – his weight a comforting presence. The intensity of the bruising and swelling on his face has diminished a fair bit over the course of the day, although seeing it still ignites a fury that requires a second or two for him to rein in. Eventually, Sherlock rests his cheek against Mycroft’s chest, seeming to be soothed by the beating of his heart, and Mycroft grabs the remote to turn off the lights in the room. Mycroft will miss this when Sherlock goes back to Baker Street, even though this is only the second day that Sherlock and he have shared a bed. For sleeping and cuddling purposes only. 

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, dearest?” 

“Do you… expect sex?” There is something tentative in Sherlock’s words.

“Does sex alarm you, brother?” Mycroft asks – curious as to what the real answer to this question is.

He can hear Sherlock swallow awkwardly in the darkness. 

“It’s okay if it does. I don’t expect anything – Lock. And certainly nothing that you aren’t willing to offer me.” Mycroft quickly reassures. 

The words tumble out reluctantly. “You were right the first time, Mycroft. That… that I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s fine… Lock. Don’t worry about it.”

“But – you’ve had sex. Just not recently.” 

“As you’ve astutely deduced in the hospital – I am more celibate than most priests these days. Bedding and fucking goldfish gets old very quickly, little brother – if you would pardon my French.”

“Mm… but I think you want to. With me.”

“Only if you want to, darling. Otherwise I do have two hands. And some toys. It’s worked sufficiently for the past decade.”

His brother moves up so that they are face to face – redistributing his weight across Mycroft’s body. “For the longest time I thought I was asexual. I know – brother – that you thought Irene held my interest in that way – but…” Sherlock shakes his head. “It was more of an intellectual affair more than anything. And now – with all this emotional upheaval that I’ve been experiencing – I don’t think that this hypothesis holds true anymore – Mycroft. I think I would like to… experiment if you will.”

“As long as there are no dead body parts, diapers and scat – I think I would be a willing participant for your ‘experiments’, Lock.”

“Mm… you could teach me. Like how you taught me how to dance.” 

Mycroft can hear Sherlock’s smile in his voice. Ah. Fond memories. He’s beyond glad that Sherlock remembers the majority of their shared experiences now. How painful it had been to have known and to have savoured the joy of being with the one who he had loved best and to lose it all due to one cruel blow? Knowing that his brother had no recollection of those experiences that Mycroft had held so dear? He is thankful that these dark days have finally passed.

“Of course, brother mine.” 

There is nothing he would like better. 

***

“Oh, Sherlock – your poor face!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims with some dismay when Sherlock walks into 221B the next day. 

“You should have seen it several days ago.” Sherlock remarks dryly.

His landlady tuts, and inquires. “So – are you back for good?”

“No. Not quite yet.” In fact – Sherlock doesn’t want to, considering that now he has most of his memories back. And his Mycroft. 

He had dropped by after Mycroft had left for work – which would no doubt focus on finding and vetting new personnel for Sherrinford and drafting new policies and rules to maintain its security. They had shared a goodbye kiss that neither had wanted to break. It had left Sherlock with a longing that had started as soon as the door had shut behind Mycroft. Besides, what is there to look forward to here? He would be alone. Again. Stuck in a place full of the ghosts of past experiences. And John. 

“Ah – having fun with your brother?” Damn, his landlady is really too shrewd. 

“More than expected.” Sherlock says while maintaining the straightest face could manage. 

“Ginger nuts?” 

Sherlock strides into her flat without another word and hangs his coat and scarf up before dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson fusses over tea and brings him an assortment of freshly baked biscuits. He takes a ginger nut and bites into it happily. 

“That nasty man really did do a number on you, dearie.” Mrs. Hudson sits down across from him with a cuppa of her favourite blend of English Breakfast in hand. 

“Hell is seldom a fun locale to visit, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock says with utmost seriousness. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I suppose John didn’t contact you?”

Sherlock looks sadly at her. “Unless you count Molly sending a text informing me that I’ve lost my godfather privileges to Rosie.” He adds despairingly. “John doesn’t want me to see her.” 

“Did he give a reason?”

“No.” 

Mrs. Hudson looks reflective. “When I did go visit John on Saturday – I overheard a conversation that he had with Molly when I stepped out to go use the loo. His voice was pretty raspy – as I had told you when I called, but I could hear enough – even see enough from where I was standing. He said that with the drugs, your recklessness and with everything else that has happened in the past few months – he couldn’t trust you with Rosie anymore. I am sorry – Sherlock – I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

Sherlock buries his forehead in his palms. In abject misery. Of course. His chest aches in yearning – both for Mycroft and the little Rosie. He had loved playing godfather – had thrilled in making her laugh – seeing the traces of her parents being expressed through her little body – tracking her developmental milestones and testing for the infant-ish reflexes that eventually disappeared one-by-one as she grew older.

“The man – Smith? That’s the murderer right? When I saw him on the telly – he didn’t seem like the type –” Mrs. Hudson stops suddenly in realization. And gasps. “Sherlock. How did you get those bruises?”

At the shrug of his shoulders, Mrs. Hudson knows. “John did it. Didn’t he? And…” Her eyes widen. “Someone punished him for it.”

“Mrs. Hudson – I don’t –”

“No – Sherlock – dearie. No. You are like a son to me. I don’t care how much John’s suffered over the months and years of knowing you – but it does not justify this. Violence. Believe me I’ve seen it all from Frank.” She grabs his hand. “And he’s punishing you in other ways too – not letting you see Rosie, making your friends choose between you or him – it’s childish! I will still go help him out – as a little girl should have good womanly influences in her life – but I am disappointed. Very disappointed in him. Mary would be appalled…”

Sherlock finds himself at a loss for words. 

“And I see staying with your brother is doing wonders for you. You should keep doing that then. Besides, you can always drop in during the day while he’s working to see your clients. It’s no good being alone – especially after all of this.” She pets Sherlock’s hand. “Next time when you come to Baker Street – let me know. I wish to bake a cake to apologize to your non-reptilian brother.” 

“Oh, um – thanks, Mrs. Hudson.” 

When Sherlock vacates her flat, he finds himself replaying his conversation with his formidable landlady. Did she or did she not  _ wink _ when she had observed that staying with his brother is doing wonders for him? 

***

“Oh – hi Lestra-I mean Greg.” Sherlock quickly closes out of the detailed guide to blowjobs that he had found online on his laptop and shuts the lid. 

“What are you looking at, anyways?” Greg cautiously checks the chair and table before sitting down. “Porn?” He jests – little knowing how close to the truth he had been.

Amused, Sherlock offers. “Trying to figure out if sword-swallowers perform better fellatio over members of the general public.” 

Greg snorts. “I’d wager it depends on how long the recipient’s schlong is. If your knob is small enough – it wouldn’t make a difference, I would reckon.”

“Any new cases?” Sherlock pushes the clipboard with his filled-out paperwork to the DI.

Picking it up, Greg quickly skims through the papers. “Ta. Not yet. I’ve just been catching up on documentation today. You know how the paperwork just piles up when you aren’t looking. How about you?”

“No clients so far. Mrs. Hudson’s been turning them away for the past few days, so I would imagine word has gotten out that I am not at Baker Street.”

“Are you going back to your brother’s – later?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I should be… alone these days.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s great that you two are getting along. How are you feeling?” Greg asks with concern.

Sherlock smiles slightly trying to hide a laugh – wondering what Greg would think if he knew exactly how well Mycroft and he were getting along. And then he frowns. Feeling the need to unburden himself, he says. “I was okay, and then Mrs. Hudson told me about what John had said to Molly the other day. Said he couldn’t trust me with Rosie anymore so that’s why –”

“That’s bollocks.” Greg interrupts. “You know that – right?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock gives a half-hearted shrug. “Mrs. Hudson says she thinks he’s punishing me…”

“He is. To be honest – Sherlock – I don’t think he’s forgiven you – and used the incident as an excuse to take out his anger. If anything – I don’t trust him –”

“But… you trust me.” Sherlock says cautiously.

“Of course I bloody do. Your methods may be mad, but there’s always a good intention behind them…”

“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions…”

“Ha. So they say. But Sherlock – if he comes crawling back to you at any point, don’t let him –”

“I know, Greg. If he does anything, I don’t think my brother would let it slide… to be honest.” 

“No, I can’t imagine that he will.” The DI glances at his phone after a chime had gone off. “Well bugger, I will see you some other time, Sherlock – gotta fly.”

***

Mycroft puts down his phone on the nightstand when he sees Sherlock sauntering into his (their?) bedroom in nothing but a creamy silk bed sheet. There is a mischievous twinkle in one of his brother’s eyes when he climbs into bed. 

“I know you looked – Mycroft – all those years ago. At Buckingham Palace.” Sherlock smiles in an unrepentant manner. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Mycroft turns on his side to face his brother – hm… perhaps he had been attracted to Sherlock much earlier in the game. He just hadn’t known it then. 

“You wanted me to walk away.” 

“No I didn’t.” Mycroft’s tone does nothing to convince either of them. 

“Does that mean you  _ don’t  _ want to see what’s underneath this sheet?” The words are playful, bordering on coquettish.

“I didn’t say that.” Mycroft is instantly upon him – and Sherlock offers him a corner. 

He tosses the corner casually aside, unraveling part of the sheet – and he just stares and stares. Sherlock is beautiful – laid out like this on the creamy silk – looking at him with such adoration. A constellation of bruises mars his alabaster skin and Mycroft finds himself flexing his fingers – wishing that he could go throttle his brother’s ex-best-friend once again. He could only imagine his poor brother – being kicked and punched while being in no condition to defend himself – only to have Smith’s staff pull Dr. Watson off of him at the end. Mycroft had overheard part of the conversation with Lestrade yesterday. 

Sherlock grows nervous due to Mycroft’s inaction. “I know this isn’t a pretty sight –”

“Oh – Lock – you’ve suffered so.” Mycroft crawls over his brother after unravelling the other half of the sheet. Bending his neck, he bestows kisses on his brother’s face. “I just wish… that I could take away some of the pain.” He lets his cheek brush slowly against Sherlock’s recently clean-shaven one. 

“My back is worse.” His brother warns.

“I know. I was there. I saw them. In Serbia.” Mycroft acknowledges. “God, Lock – how I adore you.” He kisses his brother’s pliant lips once more, letting his tongue sweep over that lovely cupid’s bow. “How I love you. My darling.” 

His brother’s eyes look suspiciously damp. 

“Sh… Lock – don’t cry.” Mycroft whispers in his ear, before sucking at the delicate curve, using his tongue to tease the skin – causing a shudder to course throughout his brother. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. What do you want me to do, dear?”

“Make me – forget. Show me –” Sherlock manages and Mycroft understands. 

_Show me, love._ _Make love to me._ His hands tenderly caress the planes of his brother’s torso, while his lips, mouth and tongue seek out all the battered, bruised and scarred bits – trying to kiss the agony, the callousness away. A fanciful sentimental thought – but Mycroft couldn’t really give a toss at this very moment. He slides his hands over to his brother’s back, gently mapping out the old scars – recalling back to that day at Buckingham Palace where his brother’s back had been unmarked – pristine. 

His brother sighs and moans and writhes under his touch – and if he listens closely – Mycroft can hear his name being uttered with a reverence. The experience suddenly fills him with joy – a euphoria that he had never known. This is little brother – the being that he has loved ever since his emergence from the womb. It doesn’t matter if incest is considered immoral – all Mycroft had ever wanted is for Sherlock to be happy and safe and loved – and if circumstance has decreed him as the steward of little brother’s heart – of little brother’s happiness then there is really nowhere else he would rather be. 

Sherlock gasps when Mycroft takes his cock into his mouth – his lips, mouth, tongue and even his hands evoking such pleasure within his transport. He wipes away his tears to see an awesome sight – watching Mycroft working at his glans – the tongue putting such delicious pressure against his frenulum. His brother’s touches are so gentle – it makes him feel precious. Giving him a glimpse of the affection that Mycroft has for him. It gives a worth that he hadn’t felt in so long. If ever. Firmly establishing a new niche for him to occupy in this brave new world. And all too soon, his hips buck – he spills with a cry of “Mycroft!” and finds himself completely and utterly boneless – lost in the fog of orgasmal bliss. 

His brother crawls over to him with a small smile – his hand reaching over to brush away Sherlock’s residual tears. “Good?” 

“God…” Sherlock breathes. 

Mycroft chuckles – feeling highly flattered. “Only the British Government, dear.”

“Didn’t know sex could feel so…”

“Good? Fantastic? Incredible? Sublime?”

Sherlock beams at him before reaching up to cup Mycroft’s cheek and they share a kiss. And then another. And one more before he states.

“You love me.”

“God help me. I do.” Mycroft moves to lie next to his brother. 

“No regrets?”

“None.” His syllable is firm. 

“Good. Very good.” Sherlock snuggles up to him. His forehead then furrows. “You didn’t come.” 

“It’s not –”

“No, Mycroft – I insist. Use my bum – I know you are rather fond of it.” 

“Lock – I don’t want to ‘use’ you –”

“You know what I mean.” Sherlock leans over to kiss his brother’s cheek. He flips over, and Mycroft sees the criss-cross of scars on his brother’s back for the first time in a long while. “Please.”

Mycroft reaches for a bottle of lubricant hidden inside the drawer of his nightstand, before kneeling over his brother’s legs. He leans over to kiss Sherlock’s nape, gently mouthing the flesh – careful not to leave a mark. For his brother has too many. One day – he would like to leave a different trail of bruises along his brother’s neck – in contrast to the ones he had left on Dr. Watson’s. 

With his hands, he caresses once more the skin of Sherlock’s back – pressing kisses – and even butterfly kisses down his brother’s scarred back – trying to convey how much Sherlock means to him with each one. Knowing that his brother’s back is a testament to the sacrifices that he has made. His gallant knight. Sherlock’s breath hitches when Mycroft cups his generous buttocks – and he gasps when Mycroft smears lube all over his inner thighs, his perineum and bollocks. And when Mycroft’s fingers circle around Sherlock’s rosy little opening, before lightly teasing the rim of the orifice itself – Sherlock throws back his neck and moans ever so wantonly. Ah. Gorgeous. 

He pulls down his pyjama bottoms and pants, freeing his hard and weeping cock. Grabbing the base of his prick, he rubs the cockhead teasingly against Sherlock’s anal cleft and Sherlock whines “Mycroft!” when his glans brushes suggestively against his orifice. “Please stop teasing…” He begs – and Mycroft realizes that his brother is some degree of erect again. 

“Sorry dear – couldn’t resist.” Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s shoulder apologetically before finally sliding his cock between his inner thighs. “Squeeze for me – Lock – oh – yes, that’s perfect.” He groans at the makeshift tightness. Wrapping his arms around his brother’s torso – he begins to thrust – making sure to rub against his brother’s perineum for their mutual pleasure. “God brother – you feel so good.” He breathes, fucking with deliberate strokes. “Never dreamed I could have you like this. That you could be like this.” His breathing grows more and more stilted as he approaches the crest. “Oh – Lock – I missed you.” Reaching further down – Mycroft takes Sherlock’s own prick in hand and begins to frig – matching the rate of his own strokes. “Missed you so much.” And he grunts when his own climax hits him – and he cums – adding to the mess of slick all over his brother’s skin. Sherlock ejaculates shortly afterward for the second time – and Mycroft strokes him carefully through it – milking out all his secretions. 

They collapse onto the bed – a mess of sticky secretions – and Sherlock immediately throws his arms tight and possessive against his brother – feeling heady with both endogenous neurotransmitters and unsaid sentiment. There is so much he wants to say. He isn't the only one that has suffered. For he knows now that Mycroft had suffered silently in the years after Eurus’ insanity – carrying their family’s most sordid secrets, being their insane sister’s keeper and having to endure a beloved little brother who had lost his memories. He is struck with the realization that for years he had relied on his brother’s supposed invincibility. If anything, the past few days have shown him that like him – Mycroft is human. No – it is time to pick himself off the ground and be someone that is worthy of his big brother. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Hello, sister-dear.” Mycroft offers Eurus a small grin as he strides towards the glass of her cell.

His sister glares furiously at him. It is perhaps fortuitous that she has not mastered the art of killing with her eyes alone. It is as he had suspected – after witnessing the spectacular collapse of Sherlock’s reconstructed mind status-post Victor’s death – that Eurus had been wandering freely about in the world. Judging by the degree of contempt, Mycroft strongly suspects that she had been in the midst of putting together a scheme that would have dastardly consequences for both himself and his brother. A scheme that had been brewing for several years now – ever since Moriarty had visited her cell. Whatever those plans may be – Mycroft knows that he had effectively nipped them at the bud with the implementation of new measures and staff – and she knows it. 

“Brother.” She utters. “Have you come to lord over your victory?” 

Mycroft snorts. “I think you’ve done quite enough to our Sherlock – have you not?” 

She doesn’t dignify his question with a response. Huffing loudly, she paces the space. Looking dissatisfied. But then again… when has she ever looked satisfied? Or happy for that matter? Carrying out her nasty little plan? But even before, she had always been arrogant and scathing towards him. Bitingly and annoyingly sarcastic.

“I brought you a visitor.” He finally cuts to the chase after allowing her to stew a bit. 

“Oh?” She looks up. 

Mycroft nods, and the guard standing at the door permits Sherlock to come in. Eurus looks shocked. He smirks to himself – it’s nice to throw her off-kilter for a change. 

“Hello Eurus.” Sherlock presses his palms against the glass, and little sister mimics him. 

“You forgot about me.” She says – accusingly. “You  _ always _ forget about me.” 

It takes Mycroft back to their childhood. Her entire demeanour is the same as it had been. 

“I remember you now.” Sherlock replies quietly. “I never liked the games we played.”

“Do you remember Redbeard?” 

Sherlock nods and says simply. “Victor.” 

Mycroft feels another glare directed his way. He shakes his head. For all her intellect – at the end of the day, his sister is incredibly predictable. No doubt her ruined game would feature Dr. John Watson – a stand-in for Victor. 

And perhaps… his brother’s almost obsession (or rather tunnel-vision) concerning anyone named Watson is linked to Victor. At some level unknown consciously to his brother – there must have been a sense of loss. A loss concerning a close friend – and to deal with this sensation – Sherlock had clung on to the Watsons for so long despite the pain that he had suffered at their hands. Needing to keep his ‘friend’ at all possible cost.

Eurus’ face falls abruptly. Oh. Sherlock and he had talked about this. The possibility of Eurus being able to suss out the change in their relationship. Mycroft earns another hateful look. 

“I will tell Mummy!” She exclaims petulantly, and then proceeds to chant childishly in a sing-song kind of way. “Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in a tree – K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love –”

“She won’t believe you.” Sherlock refutes calmly. “There is no proof. Besides, Mummy and Father would be over the moon in regard to the fact that Mycroft and I have improved our  _ brotherly  _ relationship.” 

Mycroft sighs when Eurus looks at him again – this time giving him the look of a toddler who had all her toys taken away. From her standpoint, Mycroft knows that he had achieved a complete victory.

It is the classic age-old tale of two siblings vying for the attention of their third sibling. And when Eurus had lost – she had utilized the scorched-Earth policy. If she couldn’t have Sherlock, then neither could Mycroft. In realization, he shivers – for the plan that Sherlock and he had thwarted might have involved completing her grudge. Maybe… somehow inducing Sherlock to kill him. She would find that poetic. 

Good god. 

Ah. She knows that he knows. Eurus throws him a cold little smile – just as Sherlock puts down his violin case, takes out his Strad and tunes the strings. 

***

Fluffy flakes drift slowly downward in the darkening London skies as Sherlock and Mycroft opt to walk home after indulging in a tasting menu at a swanky Japanese-inspired restaurant in Mayfair. A comforting extravagance that Mycroft had needed after an exposure to Eurus. The marinated black cod had been to die for. The highlight had been watching his Sherlock eat. For a man who prided so much on intellect and little on the basics of daily living – he is a sensual creature – enjoying his silky dressing gowns, high thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, the notes of his Stradivarius, the thrilling steps of a dance and food – if it’s prepared well. With the condition that he isn’t preoccupied with a vexing case or problem. It had been amazing how quickly the sashimi, the korean-spiced lamb cutlets, the gyoza, the tempura and everything else had vanished down Sherlock’s mouth. His brother’s face is flushed from one-too-many cups of sake, and part way through their walk, his arm entwines around Mycroft’s. 

In a fit of whimsy, Mycroft grabs his brother’s leather-clad hand and guides him to take a tramp around the neighbourhood park. Twilight from the dying sun streaks the horizon in bright warm hues. It is quiet here, apart from the occasional dog-walker or the couple taking their daily postprandial stroll. 

“What did you think of the East Wind?” Mycroft inquires conversationally.

Sherlock takes a moment to think. “It’s… almost hard to believe that she’s a year younger than me. I mean… it’s like she never grew up. That taunt with us in a tree. Then on the other hand, you know that she’s brilliant. When she looks at you – it’s as if she’s taking you apart and looking for ways to reassemble you.” 

During his chat with Eurus, Sherlock had noticed the silent conversation going on between his siblings. Most of it had gone way over his head, but it is very hard to ignore the burning hatred(?) that Eurus had directed at Mycroft. No Stockholm Syndrome here – that’s for sure. “She despises you.” He concludes.

Mycroft chuckles lightly. “That’s not new. She regards me as her rival. An archenemy if you will.”

“Really?”

“From her crib, we’ve been locked in a power struggle of sorts.” 

“Over what?” Sherlock is truly perplexed. 

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft stops walking and smiles at him. 

Damn. Sherlock had clearly been oblivious to whatever that had been going on between Mycroft and Eurus in his childhood. 

“I really don’t know.” He admits. 

“We fought over… you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You.” Mycroft starts walking again. “For your attention. I won. And she couldn’t cope with that. You see how it is.” 

“So then –” Sherlock swallows, thinking about the tragedy that unfolded. He doesn’t even know what to do with this information. He had known that Eurus had been jealous – jealous enough to kill his best friend other than Mycroft… but he hadn’t known that this had been a feud over him. Undoubtedly, having Sherlock conveniently forget everything about his childhood must have been the icing on the cake. An indirect means to get back at Mycroft. Who Eurus couldn’t have disposed of as easily as Victor. He shudders – never had he seen someone with so much hate in her eyes. “What were you two conversing about while I was talking?” 

“The plans that we thwarted, brother mine. Trust me, nothing good would have come out of it had we not stopped her.” Mycroft takes his hand again. 

They are alone in the park. Even the twilight had finally receded, leaving only a thin glow delineating the horizon. A cold wind blows, but Sherlock feels warm. From alcohol. From feasting. And from being with his brother. His… lover. His Mycroft. Oddly enough, he doesn’t want to know what Eurus had planned for them. The hard tone that Mycroft had used told him what he had needed to know. Perhaps a grisly reenactment of what had happened so long ago. Or something else even more devastating. Especially if Moriarty – the element of chaos – had been tossed into the mix. 

“This is some date.” Sherlock remarks after a long silence, kicking at the snow. “Airing out the old family skeletons.” 

“Then what should we be talking about, Lock? What’s your favourite colour?” There is amusement in Mycroft’s tone. 

“That’s actually a difficult question.” Sherlock ponders. “Blue, maybe.” His scarf. Mycroft’s eyes. The colour of the ocean. The alcohol makes him brave. Well, mayhaps – more bold. ”But, Mycroft – I really want to kiss you. Under the moonlight.”

Oh. Mycroft looks up. A full moon. 

“A moon for lunatics, brother mine. Transylvania effect.”

His brother licks his lips. “Oh, come on – Mycroft. Do you really think any of us are  _ sane? _ ” Sherlock is so close that Mycroft can smell the sake on his breath. “Kiss me.”

Mycroft glances around before finally cupping his brother’s cheek with his own leather-clad hand and he brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. Out here in the open, he feels exposed – vulnerable. It is exhilarating. It is lunacy. Committing such a simple but illicit act with his brother. 

Sherlock grins when they finally break apart – before shivering visibly when a strong gust of wind blows past. “Let’s head back – brother. I think I am hungry again.” He winks.

“You are incorrigible.” Mycroft tuts.

“Sounds about right.”

“I love you anyways.”

“I figured out that much – hey!”

Sherlock jumps when he feels something smack into his back. A wet snowball. Immediately, he bends down to gather some ammunition of his own, while Mycroft is already striding quickly away – towards home.

***

One hot shower later, Sherlock could feel life returning back to his frozen limbs. After he had caught up to Mycroft they had ended up having a full-blown snowball fight that had transitioned into wrestling in the snow – getting the cold wet stuff in places where it really shouldn’t be. He couldn’t recall ever having laughed so hard. Not even with John in the good old days. It had been  _ fun. _ Who would have known that Mycroft would be willing to get down and dirty on the ground – pinning him down beneath him, before kissing him into oblivion? Even if anyone had glanced at them in the darkness – they would have seen two lunatics frolicking in the snow. No doubt they would tut and move on with their lives without observing too closely. 

Alas, no one had. 

He walks out, draped only with his towel – and Mycroft is already waiting for him – clad in a tasteful quilted dressing gown in a shade of spruce – on the bed. Sherlock allows for their foreheads to brush, before allowing their lips to mingle in a slow, lingering kiss. When they separate to draw breath, Sherlock asks.

“What are we going to do today?”

“I thought that maybe you would like to  _ fuck _ me.” Mycroft offers. 

Sherlock is both intrigued and surprised by the prospect. “Mm… I thought you’d be a top.”

“I am. But, I have no qualms about you fucking me, little brother. Besides – I was busy while you were taking your time in there.” Mycroft glances teasingly towards the loo. 

“Busy…? Oh, Mycroft – naughty! Let me see!” Sherlock leaps onto the bed in his excitement.

Mycroft laughs delightedly. “So eager. Give me another kiss.” 

Sherlock does. God. He could do this forever. Kissing. Each one leading to an explosion of oxytocin and dopamine in his synapses. Leading to feelings of euphoria. His wandering hand tugs at the tie holding Mycroft’s dressing gown closed, revealing pale and dark-furred skin. He presses worshipful kisses along Mycroft’s neck, his fingers reaching to caress the soft fur – finding his brother’s nipples and giving them teasing touches, causing them to stiffen. His brother moans softly at his touches as Sherlock carefully caresses Mycroft’s trim and soft belly before coming face to face with his magnificent semi-erect prick. Remembering his original intention, Sherlock swallows and carefully slides his hand past Mycroft’s hairy scrotal sac – and he sees it – the base of some dark toy stretching out his brother’s anus. 

When Sherlock lightly traces the stretched rim – Mycroft shivers and says. “You can just take it out, brother mine.” 

At Sherlock’s hesitation, Mycroft takes pity. He leans forward and kisses his bruised cheek. “You are quite adorable when you are shy, Lock.” 

“Not adorable.” Sherlock grumbles halfheartedly, and Mycroft only grins. 

“Cute too.” 

“Myc–!”

Mycroft silences his brother’s protest with a kiss. It is too much fun not to tease. He pulls away Sherlock’s towel, marvelling at how little hair his brother’s body has – his brain cataloguing his injuries to compare to yesterday’s data. It’s improved, but still devastating. He reaches for his brother’s partially soft cock, and strokes, feeling the organ grow plump under his hand. Sherlock moans – and squirms when Mycroft allows a fingertip to focus on the head of his cock before rubbing teasing circles around his slit.

“Ready?” Mycroft asks – as he guides his brother to lie down on the bed. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock looks fondly at his brother – still amazed that Mycroft would let him fuck him. “God, Mycroft – you look amazing.” 

“You mean it.” Mycroft smiles as he straddles Sherlock’s thighs – seeing the sincerity in his brother’s eyes. 

“Of course I do. So hot.” Sherlock adds, earnestly.. 

Mycroft is highly flattered. He bends over to kiss his brother before lining up his hole with Sherlock’s prick – and carefully pushes the cockhead past his sphincter muscles. The both gasp at the moment of penetration. For Mycroft – the pleasure intermingles with a touch of pain – he has never bottomed in any of his previous experiences and had never had the compulsion to until Sherlock – but there is just something – something about receiving his brother’s prick that feels so right. It is as if they are two parts of a whole – or rather two separate components of the same organism, reuniting for the first time, becoming one once more. When he finally takes the long cock to the hilt, he leans over and presses kisses against his brother’s dear awestruck face. “God – Lock, you feel so good. So perfect.” His words come out distorted – guttural. 

“Oh, fuck – brother.” Sherlock manages – as his hips start to buck. “I don’t think I can make it last.” 

“Oh, Lock – it’s okay. It’s alright. It’s your first time.” Mycroft leans over to press another kiss, before beginning to frig his own thicker cock leisurely. “You can let go whenever you are ready, love.” 

And Sherlock clenches his jaw – and thrusts, determined to use what time and willpower he has left to maximize Mycroft’s pleasure by observing his brother’s reactions carefully. It takes him a few tries to find the best angle to hit his brother’s sweet spot just right – using tells such as the degree of scrunching of his brother’s eyes, his moans of approval and the extension of his neck amongst others. And timing it just right – he thrusts just as Mycroft descends – and his brother’s eyes roll back with pleasure as he throws his head back with a shout – and his cum splatters messily on Sherlock’s chin and chest. Before Sherlock could enjoy his ‘victory’, the muscles of Mycroft’s arse contracts rhythmically – drawing out an unintelligible cry from his throat and strangling his seed from him. 

“Clever little brother.” Mycroft leans over at some point to press an adoring kiss onto Sherlock’s cheek after recovering from his own earth-shattering orgasm. 

“Mm… That was good, wasn’t it?” Sherlock feels rather like a train had run over him. Still hazy with chemical bliss, he murmurs. “Love you, Mycroft.”

Tenderly, Mycroft caresses Sherlock’s curls. He rather enjoys this shagged-out version of his brother. “Love you always, Lock.” After pressing one last kiss to Sherlock’s temple, he gets up to fetch a damp towel from the loo to wipe away their messes.

***

_ How is your day going? MH _

_ Tedious. SH _

_ No one has a remotely interesting problem. SH _

He glances up at the Imperial College London student talking at length about mysterious post-it notes randomly appearing in her flat. Telling her to ‘save her thesis’, to go ‘buy avocados’, to go have a ‘chat with her landlord’ and some left plain blank. She gives a look of pure distress to Sherlock and exclaims.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Keep talking.” Sherlock looks back down at his phone – having felt the vibration of another oncoming text.

_ I have a surprise for you. MH _

_ Oh? What is it? SH _

“So, Mr. Holmes – I feel like there is a stalker that’s been breaking into my flat. Possibly my landlord –” His client continues onwards about the details of purchasing a webcam and setting it up to catch the suspected individual. 

_ That would defeat the purpose of a surprise, dear one. MH _

_ Is it the fact that you are coming home early? SH _

_ Unfortunately not. I will be back at the usual time. MH _

_ I miss you. :( SH _

“And then three days ago, I found this other post-it note saying ‘our landlord isn’t letting me talk to you, but it’s imperative that we do’. I checked my webcam – found nothing suspicious. Although I did find that someone rearranged my desktop icons, and deleted everything from my recycling bin.”

_ I miss you too. But please :) for me. MH _

_ Can I have a hint? SH _

_ I feel incomplete without you. SH _

_ I will make dinner! SH _

“I am at my wits end, Mr. Holmes – that brings us to today, where there’s post-it notes of all sorts of colours scattered everywhere! Like an explosion!” 

_ I wasn’t expecting to acquire this surprise. MH _

_ As do I. MH _

_ I didn’t know you cooked, dearest. MH _

“Hm… how good is your memory? It could be possible that you did all these things yourself?” Sherlock offers. 

The client frowns. “No. My memory is pretty good. There’s no way I did –”

“Any headaches?”

_ Now I am really intrigued. SH _

_ And, brother, you will find that your lover is capable of many things. SH _

“Oh god. Yes – been taking paracetamol almost every day. Sometimes it hurts so bad. But what does it have do with –”

_ Such as saving this client’s life. SH _

_ That doesn’t sound too boring. MH _

_ It’s mundane though. No blood or guts. SH _

_ A simple case of CO poisoning. SH _

“Do you have a carbon monoxide detector?” Sherlock is anxious to get to the end of this interview. 

“Yes. Bought it last week.” 

“Did you use it yet?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been so stressed about –”

“Listen closely. This is important. Go home. Immediately plug in your carbon monoxide detector. Call your landlord when it reads a high level of carbon monoxide. Carbon monoxide poisoning causes memory issues and severe headaches – and your flat sounds poorly ventilated.” He then stands up. “Okay – I am done here for today.” 

_ I thought you passed the gory phase of your life. With pirates. MH _

_ A fun phase. I made you both walk the plank. You and Victor. SH _

_ You taught me how to sail. When we were older. SH _

_ Yes. There was a summer where you were not openly hostile to me. When you were fifteen. MH _

_ I am sorry Mycroft. SH _

_ Don’t be. Not your fault, little brother. MH _

_ I have fond memories of that summer. MH _

_ I do too, now that I can actually remember all of that. SH _

_ You took me to Europe. SH _

_ We got so drunk. I remember falling into a fountain and you attempting to fish me out. SH _

_ You were singing villainous arias. SH _

_ Before I passed out, I remembered thinking that you were a passable tenor. SH _

_ Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the marble, Lock? MH _

_ Droll, brother. SH _

Grabbing his coat and scarf, he waits for his client to leave, before heading down himself. 

“Going already, Sherlock? I baked a cake for you to bring back. Come in for a moment, dearie.” Sherlock gets waylaid by Mrs. Hudson just before he manages to reach the entrance. 

He finds himself sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen with a cuppa. PG Tips this time. 

“How are you coping, Sherlock?” She asks with matronly concern. 

“I am okay. I still miss Rosie though. Molly’s sent me a few pictures.” He sighs. There are one or two days where he’s made it without thinking about John at all. It’s Rosie that makes it excruciatingly hard. Her dear face. How she would brighten when he walked into the room. But the emotions seem to come in waves. “The physical pain is almost all gone.”

“That’s good. You are leaving early today.” Mrs. Hudson observes. 

“Yeah, there is something I have to do.” 

_ What are you making for dinner then? For your debut? MH _

“You are smiling.” His landlady remarks as Sherlock reads his text. 

_ It’s a surprise. SH _

“Oh, uh – just something amusing that Greg sent.” Sherlock quickly covers. 

Mrs. Hudson just grins. Rather like a cat who got the canary. However, she simply walks away to box up a mouth-watering specimen of chocolate cake. 

_ Because you haven’t decided yet. MH _

_ What do you want to eat? SH _

_ Whatever it is that you can cook. MH _

_ Impress me. MH _

_ Although something simple would be nice. Lunch was revolting. MH _

_ Alright. I hope I can concoct something less disastrous. SH _

_ I will see you soon, my love. MH _

_ One more meeting and then I shall be all yours. MH _

Sherlock puts his phone away when Mrs. Hudson brings the cake over to him. 

Sherlock takes the cake – unsure of what else to say. 

“Sherlock. My dear. I just want to say that whatever makes you happy, will make me happy. And if you ever need advice on how to keep a man, you can always come ask. Cake helps.” She winks.

“Um… thank you Mrs. Hudson. I will see you… later.” 

Bloody hell! She knows for sure. Sherlock turns around to head back out. 

And she’s… supportive!?!

***

“Oh Mycroft…” Sherlock is dumbstruck by the bundle in Mycroft’s arms. “He’s… adorable.” 

Mycroft chuckles fondly at his brother, while savouring the scene in front of him. His beloved brother, staring googly-eyed at the sable-furred Shetland Sheepdog puppy nestled in a blue blanket, wearing an apron bearing the words ‘kiss the cook’ with reddish (non-bloody, but saucy) stains all over the front. 

“Arf!” The puppy raises a curious forepaw toward Sherlock. 

“What’s his name? Can we keep him? Does he have all his shots? Where did you get him from? How old is he?” A flurry of questions explodes from his brother with an enthusiasm that brings Mycroft straight back into their childhood days. 

“Bear. Yes. Some. One of my agents who had to move to another flat on short notice and couldn’t take him. Half a year old.” Mycroft finds himself quickly answering. “And he’s house-trained.” 

Sherlock holds out his arms, and Mycroft carefully deposits Bear into them. The sheltie instantly turns to look at his brother, and starts licking his chin with happy little barks. His brother’s eyes radiate happiness, and Mycroft leans over to kiss the cheek that has not been covered by dog-slobber. And then he has a sudden urge to giggle. 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asks, readjusting his hold on Bear. 

“Us. I was just thinking of Eurus’ little rhyme…”

“Mycroft and Sherlock sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Sherlock chants quietly, rocking the pup. And then he looks expectantly at Mycroft and Mycroft feels compelled to kiss those delectable lips, Bear’s saliva aside. “First comes love – we have that.” Sherlock’s plush lips quirk into a cute little smile.

Mycroft wraps his arms around his brother’s slender waist – and impulsively pulls his phone out to take a selfie. 

“You are a sap, brother.” 

“Only for you, love.” 

“I want that picture.”

“Of course, dear. I will text it to you.” 

“Hm… what’s the next line, anyways?” Sherlock ponders, as he reaches for Mycroft’s hand to guide him over to the kitchen. 

Mycroft fidgets a bit, before saying quietly. “Then comes marriage. Then comes baby in a baby-carriage.” He takes a breath. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this up. Even if they could get married, they haven’t even been together for two weeks. Talk about a whirlwind romance. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, Mycroft?” 

“I know I can’t offer marriage or a baby like Miss Watson, but –”

“It’s fine, Mycroft – I have you – and Bear will be our ‘baby’. Come – dinner is going to get cold!” 

“Is it edible? Or do I have to call in a hazmat team?” Mycroft opts for levity.

“Keep it up, and I will let you starve.” 

“Would you really be so heartless to let your big brother starve, Lock?” 

“Ru-ruff!” Bear interjects, and Sherlock laughs and laughs. 

“Traitors. The both of you.” Mycroft shakes his head with mock-disappointment, and Sherlock lets the sheltie down on the kitchen tiles and lights the candles on the table, illuminating further the dimmed space of their kitchen. 

Mycroft busies himself with preparing Bear’s dinner – adding warm water to a dehydrated chicken and whole grain mix into the dog bowl that he had brought in. Too lazy to go back into the foyer to grab the water bowl, he takes a metal mixing bowl from a cupboard and fills it with water. He sets the bowls on the ground and Bear immediately makes a beeline for his dinner with a series of joyful barks. After washing his hands, he joins his brother.

“This looks good, brother mine.” Mycroft can feel his stomach rumbling as he examines the spread of spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce (that had spilled onto Sherlock’s apron), the basket of crunchy garlic bread and a hearty salad with greens, beets, dried cranberries and pumpkin seeds. There’s even a bouquet of long-stemmed roses standing next to the candles, and glasses filled with red wine. 

“There’s even cake, compliments of Mrs. Hudson. A nice chocolate one.”

“Really? Do I need to call poison control?” Mycroft exclaims in disbelief – remembering his last interaction with the landlady. “Or a toxicology lab?”

Sherlock explains. “Oh no – it’s to apologize. And to thank you for… um… saving me.” His brother frowns. Shyly, he starts. “Mycroft – I didn’t –”

“No, Lock – don’t thank me for that.” Mycroft helps himself to a generous amount of salad, before drizzling a sparse amount of vinaigrette over his vegetables. 

“But you’ve done it so many times. And I’ve never said anything.” Sherlock twirls some noodles around the tines of his fork, before stabbing a meatball. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft reaches over to grab his free hand. “Just please stop the death-defying stunts. Especially those involving  _ yourself _ as bait to catch murderous individuals.” 

“Alright. I will try my best.” Sherlock nods, somberly – looking a bit contrite. 

There is a lull in the conversation after that. Both are in heavy thought as they eat, while Bear – now finished with his food – had run under their table and had gone back and forth between their feet – pawing at Mycroft’s and resting his head between Sherlock’s. Sherlock reaches downward to pet Bear’s furry head. The sheltie tries to climb up to Sherlock’s lap, but he says firmly. “No, Bear.” The puppy whines, and opts to lie between Sherlock’s feet – licking at his shoes. 

Mycroft smiles fondly at Sherlock’s interactions with Bear. He has no regrets bringing him home. Bear would keep Lock busy – and distracted from thinking about those damned Watsons. The food is scrumptious too, he decides – after taking a large bite out of Sherlock’s garlic bread. This domesticity – he could easily get used to this. 

***

“Mm… Mycroft – this feels so good.”

Sherlock moans as he rubs his cock against Mycroft’s belly, while Mycroft has grabbed both of Sherlock’s buttocks for leverage and is essentially fucking Sherlock’s lubricated anal cleft, allowing his prick to slide tantalizingly over Sherlock’s hole with every stroke. They are both feeling full and sated; hence, in the mood for lazy sex. Sherlock bends his neck downwards to kiss his brother – and they share deliciously lingering kisses, which slowly add to their growing pleasure. His own hands are running through Mycroft’s furred chest, massaging his pectorals while teasing his nipples – and Sherlock couldn’t help thinking that if he sat up a little, he could get Mycroft’s cock up his arse… which he had never had up there before. 

“Another day, Lock – too tired to fuck you properly.” Mycroft says knowingly. That dinner with Sherlock’s amazing pasta, meatballs and garlic bread and Mrs. Hudson’s sinfully delicious chocolate cake had taken its toll. “Would let you sit on my face, while I prep your pretty little virgin hole, and then fuck you so well that you will scream the house down.” 

“Such promises.” Sherlock shudders with delight at Mycroft’s dirty words. 

They share another kiss. And another. Mycroft enjoys the flush staining Sherlock’s face and gorgeous cheekbones as he squirms and exerts himself for more friction, limited by Mycroft’s grip around his arse. How wanton his brother looks, panting as he approaches climax. 

“So close – My, so close. Want to cum.” Sherlock manages. “God, Mycroft –”

Mycroft feels his abdomen being coated with sticky warm cum as his brother gasps, shuddering almost violently through his orgasm. Sherlock – dazed, but still of sound mind – somehow manages to crawl downwards and slip Mycroft’s achingly hard prick into his mouth, putting the perfect amount of pressure against his frenulum with his tongue before engulfing the reddened organ further into his mouth – sucking so enthusiastically that his cheekbones jut from his face. Mycroft could just cum from the image of those beautiful plush lips surrounding his cock alone. Then, Sherlock swallows around his prick – and it’s over – tipping Mycroft into climax. His brother continues sucking, milking all the ejaculate – before licking the slit clean. Some of his cum drips from Sherlock’s chin. 

God. What a sight. 

Sherlock licks at the cum he didn’t manage to swallow – still trying to get used to the taste of his brother’s secretions. Mycroft had sunk back further into the pillows, looking absolutely finished by his orgasm. It fills Sherlock’s chest with an odd sort of warmness. A strong feeling of affection and love. He knows that he is the only person that Mycroft would ever permit to see him like this – vulnerable with all his shields down. He curls up around his brother, kissing his cheek – wishing that they could have forever to make up for all those wasted years of lost memory, resentment and bickering. 

In retrospect, he doesn’t regret following through with Mary’s last wish, or rather – demand. It may have not saved his relationship with his ex-best friend – but it had brought him, Mycroft. Or rather, made him realize and  _ remember  _ that he already had a best friend hidden in the shadows. Who had never demanded anything of him other than his best. Who saved him time and time again without complaint. Gave him distractions and cases when he had needed it. No one would ever love him more than his brother. Sherlock may have gone to Hell to ‘save John Watson’ but Mycroft had been the one to bring him back into the light. 

The days of deadly games, drugs and schemes have come to an end – now that he has found his place in the world and someone to grow old with. 

“Will you come walk with Bear and me before you leave for work tomorrow, Mycroft?”

“Mm… we would have to get up at six, little brother.” Mycroft murmurs sleepily. 

“That’s fine. I will set an alarm. I am going to go check on Bear, and then I will come back with a towel to wipe you off, kay?” There is a puddle of drying cum on Mycroft’s belly. 

“Yes. Come back soon.” Mycroft mumbles reluctantly. And adorably. “Bed’s lonely.”

Damn, his brother is actually the  _ cute _ one. Sherlock leans over to peck at Mycroft’s cheek once more, before slipping out of the bed. He grabs a dressing gown draped over a nearby chair, puts it on and walks out into the hallway. Using his phone for illumination, he sees that Bear is already curled up in his blankets and asleep in his crate.

“Goodnight, Bear.” Sherlock whispers in the dark, after having switched off his mobile flashlight app.


	7. Chapter 7

“I see you have a new blogger!” Greg grins at Bear – who is adorned with a fashionable blue bandanna with snowflakes around his furry neck. The sheltie rushes forward, giving a welcoming bark and a tail wag. 

“Hullo, Greg.” Sherlock greets the copper with a snort of amusement, watching Greg squat down to ruffle and tease Bear. The sheltie stands on his hind legs – trying to lick at Greg’s face. “Bear is certainly much cuter than the previous one.”

“I would have to agree with you on that count.” Greg chuckles. He asks curiously. “Is Bear your dog, or your brother’s?”

“Well, he stays with me all day, but Mycroft brought him home.” Sherlock explains. “I’ve been training him. He’s a very intelligent dog. Sit – Bear.” He orders – and Bear immediately leaves Greg alone, sits on his haunches and glances over at Sherlock. “Good boy.” Sherlock squats down to give his pup some well-deserved pets. “We’ve been going to parks, playing endless games of fetch and I’ve been socializing him by going to crowded places… even though I don’t like crowds myself.” He then shudders. “I even went to the local Tesco’s yesterday.”

“Fancy that! Sherlock Holmes doing the groceries. You’ve become… domesticated.” Greg shakes his head, his eyes glinting with good humour. “Next thing I know you will be doing the cooking and cleaning –” At the expression on Sherlock’s face – Greg bursts out laughing. “You already have, haven’t you? Oh, I’d never thought I’d see the day! I can only hope for your brother’s sake that it’s fit for human consumption.”

“Yes, yes – I’ve heard that joke only for the third time this month. Thank you very much.” Sherlock says sarcastically, which only makes Greg laugh harder. 

“So, are you ever going to move back into Baker Street, or are you two too busy playing house? Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you. It’s nice not to be alone.” Greg sighs forlornly, reminding Sherlock of his divorced status. “You two even got a dog together.”

“Yeah. It is nice not to be alone.” Sherlock agrees, remembering that once upon a time he had said to John that ‘alone is what I have, alone protects me’ – but now he understands why he had said that in the past – to prevent himself from getting hurt. After Victor. And he likes – no,  _ loves  _ ‘playing’ house with Mycroft. Spoiling his brother with a good dinner after work. Other chores had gradually crept in – laundry, cleaning, dish-washing and etcetera. Sherlock had wanted to pull his own weight around the house, so that Mycroft could spend more time with him. And of course, playing with Bear. Cuddling. Sleeping together. Making love. “Not yet.” He says carefully. 

Greg raises an eyebrow. “If ever? You look  _ happy, _ Sherlock. I would say you would be an  _ idiot  _ to move back out.” 

Oh shit. How is it possible that the two people closest to him have found out so quickly? Mrs. Hudson and he hadn’t discussed it at all since the day of the chocolate cake. He hadn’t taken her offer for assistance in ‘keeping a man’  _ yet. _ Although he is highly suspicious that such a conversation would scar him for life. And he’s a man with many scars. 

“I don’t want to move.” Sherlock admits, running his fingers through Bear’s soft fur. And then, because he cannot resist. “How did you know?”

“How did I know?” Greg looks exasperated. “You mean how do I not possibly know? I might not be as brilliant as you, but I am capable of doing some basic observation and deduction. I knew from the day we talked about sword-swallowing that something was up. Sherlock. I’ve known you for over a decade. I’d like to say that I’ve developed some rapport with you, sunshine. I know when you are happy. And, when you are not.” 

“You didn’t say anything then.” 

“It was none of my business.” Greg shrugs. 

“And… you are fine with it?” Sherlock notes that his voice is getting a little shrill towards the end.

“Sherlock. He loves you. He won’t hurt you like John did. I’ve seen him at many hospital beds over the years. He was devastated at many of them. I have to admit that in the beginning the idea felt a bit weird, but no – who am I to interfere between two consenting adults? And you are happy. What more can I possibly ask for?” 

Sherlock passes his phone to Greg – showing him the picture that Mycroft had taken days back. Mycroft with his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock holding and looking at Bear. Even though Mycroft had been the one to take the selfie – his eyes are still directed toward Sherlock, softened by affection. Love.

“Cute.” Greg smiles at Sherlock’s pout. 

“So… do you have a case for me?” Sherlock asks, needing to change the topic.

“Yeah, I do – but – did you ever get to see Rosie?”

Sherlock gives a sad shake of his head. “I don’t even get pictures or videos now – John apparently forbade both Molly and Mrs. Hudson from taking any.” He had the odd sinking feeling that Molly had told John that he had been asking for pictures… 

“I am sorry, Sherlock.” Greg reaches over to pat his arm sympathetically. 

“Yeah. Some days are harder than others.” 

“Sounds like grief to me…” A quiet minute passes, before Greg says cautiously. “I have a daughter… who is a tad bit older than Rosie.”

“And…?”

“Ever since the ex and I divorced, she hasn’t been the same. I was wondering if…”

“Oh.” Sherlock brightens somewhat. Mycroft and he would never have children, but maybe playing godfather to someone else’s child might be able to assuage some of the agony he still feels.

“I know she wouldn’t replace Rosie… but…”

“Thanks – Greg – do you have a picture of her?”

“Yeah. Her name is Hannah…” The DI pulls out his phone for another photo-sharing session.

***

“Another cake?” Mycroft remarks when Sherlock brings over the dessert. “Can I request a trifle next time?”

“I guess she’s still feeling guilty that she called you a reptile and shooed you out of my humble abode.” Sherlock muses, as he pushes a slice of strawberry shortcake over to his brother. 

“It’s a good thing she did, because I would have been too late – otherwise.” Mycroft takes the cake, feeling rather downcast. If he had been just a minute later – it might have been too late to stop Smith. And, that fate is too terrible to contemplate. 

“My – don’t dwell on things that didn’t happen.” Sherlock reaches over to grab Mycroft’s hand – feeling the need to be physically connected in some way. 

“Arf!” Bear barks from under the table, curled up at Sherlock’s feet. 

“I know.” Mycroft plays listlessly with his fork. “Easier said than done, you know. Especially with how our brains work.” He then changes the topic. “Anything new today?”

“I am giving up my flat at Baker Street.” Sherlock decides to announce his news. 

“Wait, what?” Mycroft is caught off guard. “Why?”

“Why?” Sherlock exclaims in surprise, dropping his fork – his brother is supposed to be the  _ smarter  _ one. “I am moving.”

“Moving where?” 

“To Tahiti!” At his brother’s flabbergasted look, he puts him out of his misery. “No, Mycroft – don’t be daft, it doesn’t suit you. I am moving here. Or rather staying here. If…” 

“If…” Mycroft is astonished. In his wildest dreams, he would have never imagined this.

“If you want me to. Someone informed me that I was an idiot to even consider moving out the other day.” Sherlock suddenly feels his heart drop – perhaps he had been a little too presumptuous? 

Taking a breath, Mycroft says – his voice rendered hoarse with emotion. “Of course, you can stay here. I just didn’t think… that it would have been possible. Without –” His eyes then widen after having processed the second sentence. “Wait – someone –?”

“Greg. He figured it out. Don’t worry, brother – you don’t have to end him.” The last sentence is said with levity, but Sherlock doesn’t doubt the scary force that is his brother.

Mycroft blinks. “And, he even encouraged this? As a man of the law?”

Sherlock nods. “And… uh… Mrs. Hudson – she offered me a room in her flat for me to see clients in. But – I don’t have to vacate the premises until she finds new renters.”

“Hang on, who  _ doesn’t  _ know?” Mycroft’s brain churns with possibilities – from defamation lawsuits to running away together with false papers. 

“That’s it.” Sherlock picks his fork back up to start eating his cake. “Greg and Mrs. Hudson. We will keep a guest room as ‘my room’ to keep up appearances –”

“Alright.” Mycroft stands up – for now not caring about the details – feeling rather giddy in a way he had never been before. They can sort everything out later. “I think this calls for something special… some champagne, perhaps?” 

***

One celebratory glass of champagne had turned into two, and then Mycroft vaguely remembers Sherlock grabbing a bottle of tequila from the wine rack and a pair of shot glasses from the counter that had meant to be for decor rather than for practical use – his reddened face brimming with mischief. There had been kisses. Heated ones – tasting of alcohol, cake and hints of their jerk chicken dinner accompanied by a frantic need to become naked. 

Never had he dreamed that he would be laid out like a feast on his own dining table. His brother’s large masculine hands are caressing skin; his lips and tongue kissing and sucking an electrifying trail down his torso – careful to evoke nothing but pleasure. Kisses are planted liberally on all quadrants of Mycroft’s abdomen, and he shivers when fingertips reverently stroke the soft (flabby) flesh that had been the bane of his existence. 

“Sh… relax…” His beautifully naked brother soothes when Mycroft tenses his abdominal muscles during a moment of self-doubt. 

Sherlock brushes his cheek affectionately against his belly, letting an amazing zygomatic arch rub its way along his hairy skin. And just like that, all those negative thoughts that had been hampering him for as long as he could remember are brushed away. Mycroft feels as if he is floating – enjoying the worshipful attention of little brother. Minutes later, something cold gets placed above his umbilicus – and Mycroft glances up to see two of his shot glasses resting on his belly. Decanting skillfully, Sherlock fills them both up with tequila, before sprinkling some salt over Mycroft’s chest. A slice of lime gets placed in Mycroft’s mouth before he could think of anything witty to say. 

Winking, Sherlock explains himself. “I’ve wanted to try this, My. I saw people in nightclubs do this when I was away and it looked fun.” 

Clasping his hands behind his back, Sherlock leans forward to grasp a glass with his lips, and then slowly he tilts it – extending out that gorgeous neck for Mycroft’s benefit – and he drains it in one go, before putting aside the glass. Cautiously, he climbs up the table – mindful of the remaining shot glass and licks at the salt – getting Mycroft’s nipple in the process – before taking the lime from his still bemused brother. Artlessly, when he retreats back, he knocks over the other glass – spilling the tequila all over Mycroft’s abdomen. 

“Oops.” Sherlock remarks, unrepentantly, with faux innocence. “Let me clean that up – brother.” 

A warm heavenly tongue swirls around Mycroft’s belly button, lapping the spilled alcohol in a languorous manner, and just as Mycroft feels himself relaxing into it – he gasps when the hot muscle dips into his umbilicus, licking him out, sucking at the rim… and even thrusting into him. God. Sherlock then kisses his way back up to the salt and to lick a stripe across Mycroft’s other nipple – before bringing his lips to meet his in another breathless kiss. 

“Mm… tequila tastes better on you – My.” Sherlock breathes as they separate. 

“My turn?” Mycroft asks as Sherlock slides his way down, his palms stroking Mycroft’s body as he does so. 

“Let me suck you a bit – then I want you to do a shot off my back and fuck my virginity away like you promised.” 

“Oh, Lock.” 

Mycroft sits up from the table and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. He brushes adoring kisses onto his brother’s cheek, while a hand slides into those deliciously unruly mop of curls. “Is that really how you want to be taken for your first time?”

“I am not really a virgin, anymore – Mycroft. Nor am I a blushing handmaiden.”

“I know, Lock.” Mycroft lets their faces touch, and he murmurs. “I know you resent it sometimes, but I am protective of you. God. How I adore you. Love you. I want to make you feel special –”

“You do, My. I’ve never been so happy.” Sherlock looks into his brother’s eyes, seeing the pools of sentiment within. 

He finds himself thinking about the days at the hospital after Smith’s arrest – of Mycroft feeding him bites of decadent birthday cake. Of his brother holding him so closely while he cried over John in the loo – and what could never be between them. Of Mycroft being so patient with him, while he recovers from his brush with Hell. His brother had always put him first. He realizes – and he feels cherished beyond reason. And he knows that as the days tick by, he would like to return the favour. “But I still want you to do it. And it will be special, because it’s you and me.” 

“On your front then, little brother.” Mycroft acquiesces and gives Sherlock another kiss, before grabbing the bottle of tequila. 

Hurrying to obey, Sherlock leans over the wood of the table. 

Mycroft lays a hand over the two pert handfuls that made up his brother’s generous arse, before pouring the tequila over the small of his back. He foregoes the salt and the lime – preferring to use his brother’s own natural flavour as a chaser – and feels his brother shiver when he runs his hands down his scarred back, pressing thorough kisses on his nape and down his spine, before his tongue meets the alcohol and starts lapping and sucking it up. Licking his way down Sherlock’s arse, he spreads those generous buttocks wide, before reaching for the bottle of lubricant that Sherlock had brought downstairs. 

God. Sherlock bites back a moan when Mycroft’s tongue flicks across his hole, before a cool lubricated finger teases his perianal region. Please. Mycroft. He squirms when the warm tongue circles around his rim, contrasting with the coldness of the lube. And then he feels it – a finger pushing against his closed sphincter.

“Relax, love.” Mycroft’s voice is a caress. 

Sherlock tries, and gasps when the digit finally breaches his hole – slowly but surely sliding into his tight canal. 

“Mm… so tight.”

As the finger circles – spreading Sherlock out wider – his brother’s tongue returns – teasing his rim, before sucking at that tender flesh. And then – Mycroft adds a second finger and patiently works Sherlock loose enough to take a third. By that time, Sherlock is pushing his rear against Mycroft’s fingers, wanting more, craving more – moaning and almost mewling with pleasure when those digits rub so perfectly against his insides.

“Mycroft… please. Please don’t make me beg.” He almost cries out.

“Shhh… dear. Patience.” 

Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft finally slides his fingers out. His brother’s cock brushes tantalizingly against his orifice. He whines when he hears Mycroft taking a step back.

“Turn around. I need to see you, Lock. We can try this position next time.” 

Without argument, Sherlock flips himself around. He can see Mycroft leisurely frigging his hard weeping cock. When his brother steps forward, Sherlock wraps his legs around Mycroft’s back. Their eyes make contact, and Sherlock nods. ‘Please take me. I am ready.’ His brother rests one palm against Sherlock’s abdomen, before lining up his thick cockhead with Sherlock’s needy hole. 

And his brother pushes in. Slowly. Ever so slowly. The glans stretching Sherlock’s anus so wide. There is pain. Pleasure. But so much love. Sherlock draws his brother inward – encouraging him to give him more. He feels joy – a sense of completion that he has never felt before – as Mycroft gradually stakes his claim upon him. Soon, his brother buries his cock to the hilt, before beginning to move – fucking Sherlock with a maddening and deliberate slowness. 

Mycroft looks down at his brother – feeling himself filled with so much affection that it aches just so in his chest – as he rocks slowly, determined to draw this experience out. How deliciously Sherlock’s internal ring of muscles clings onto him. He had never dreamed he would get to be this close to his brother – and he is beyond grateful that Sherlock had chosen him to be his lover – his partner in life. 

He thrusts a little quicker, feeling his own need heighten. Sherlock writhes underneath him when he switches up the angle – and all too soon, he finds himself stroking his brother’s prick and with gasp and shudder Sherlock cums with a cry of “Mycroft!”. He fucks his brother through his orgasm before spending himself with a grunt – spurting his seed deep within the hidden depths of his beloved for the first time.

Panting, he catches himself with his hand before he collapses on top of his blissed out brother. He bends over to press a kiss on those beautiful lips, and they both smile goofily at each other. 

“Thank you, big brother – for indulging me.” 

“Of course.” 

“I love you.” 

“You better.” Mycroft growls playfully. “I don’t just fuck anyone on my dining table.”

“Mm…” Sherlock sits up to kiss him before resting his head against his chest. “And I am thankful for that.” 

“Ha.” Mycroft exhales noisily, before surveying the damages. “Come, little brother – let’s shower and sleep. Leave the mess, we can clean it tomorrow morning.” 

“I don’t think I can walk.” Sherlock admits – his legs feeling rather like jelly.

Without another word, Mycroft turns his back toward Sherlock and bends down. Getting the gist, an adoring Sherlock slides off the table and wraps his arms around his brother’s strong shoulders like he had done many times in his youth – and soon Mycroft is piggybacking him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to  _ their  _ bedroom. 

***

On a dreary rainy day, a harried and weary John Watson walks down Baker Street – intent on fetching his daughter from Mrs. Hudson after a last-minute shift at the local A&E. He grits his teeth – feeling already on edge; the lingering ghosts of the past appear to be stronger here. It hadn’t been his first choice to let Mrs. Hudson babysit Rosie at 221B, but due to a colleague’s sudden emergency, he had been the only one available to take the shift. Normally, Molly, his sister – Harry, or even his Mum would have done the honours. 

He clenches his fist, hoping to whatever deity is up there that he doesn’t see Sherlock. He had tried. Tried so hard to forgive, but all he sees is Mary’s face when he looks at his ex-flatmate. Hear her laugh. Feel her lips ghost across his own. Be bathed by the scent of her  _ Claire de Lune. _ She should be here. His beautiful, beautiful Mary. Not Sherlock. 

It just… isn’t right.

His hand – of its own volition – goes to his neck. The bruising is barely visible now, but there’s a slight persistent hoarseness to his voice. Not enough of a change for anyone around him to notice, but enough for him to perceive it every time he talks. Enough for him to feel the presence of Sherlock’s brother every time he goes to open his mouth. Fucking vigilantism. Sherlock probably went crying to his brother after his brush with Smith. And big brother would have been all too happy to stick his big nose into things. Considering how unhealthily obsessed the man had been with his little brother. Continuously saving Sherlock from the consequences of his own actions – enabling his reckless madness.

Having arrived at 221B, he uses the door knocker, and is quickly whisked inside by Mrs. Hudson. As he heads inside, he could hear the sound of something collapsing loudly from upstairs followed by peals of laughter and the excitable barking of a dog. 

John’s inquisitive look prompts Mrs. Hudson to say breezily. “Oh, it’s a Thursday, dear.  _ She  _ always comes on a Thursday.” She then tuts – as if she greatly disapproves of the going-ons that occur on this day. And then her eyes fall on him. “He’s upstairs, you know.” Offering kindly, she asks, “Do you want to go see him?”

No, he doesn’t want to see Sherlock. What right does he have to continue laughing – causing mayhem when Mary is buried six feet under? Where no one could ever hear her laugh again? But his mouth, prompted by the look that Mrs. Hudson had given him, replies with the affirmative, and he finds himself climbing the seventeen familiar steps. 

Standing by the open flat door, he peers in. He sees a bandana-wearing Sherlock hunched over the table, talking quietly to a child – a dirty-blonde haired girl who is kneeling on a chair in a pair of jeans, a sky-blue hoodie and a deerstalker (Sherlock’s). And they are putting to rights a large wooden Jenga tower that had fallen over earlier and had caused the terrific noise that John had heard from downstairs. 

“Oh! Lock! We should figure out who killed Mr. Mann!” The girl exclaims, turning to the rest of the dining table. John has never seen it so clean – free of the clutter of Petri dishes, test tubes and god knows what. Beside the microscope, there is an exquisitely detailed shipwreck island and a treehouse built painstakingly from Lego where the girl had plucked a decapitated humanoid minifigure from.

He shakes his head with disapproval. Who in bloody hell would let Sherlock babysit a child alone? No doubt the poor girl’s head would be filled with blood and grisly murders – not to mention the reckless, thoughtless and most dangerous activities that they would no doubt engage in.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

John is startled when he sees Greg at the landing. Instead of case files tucked under his arm, the DI has bags of takeaway smelling tantalizingly of fish & chips in his hands. 

“You-you…” John starts – feeling that he still has a bone to pick with bloody Greg… who no doubt had him clapped up in irons for a miserable night in gaol and had sicced those nasty social workers on him. Him! The doctor. The captain. A responsible man of society! Does he have no idea how much trouble and pain he has caused in the last few weeks? Or thought about the implications such actions could have on his medical career? And what about his dear Rosie? They could take his daughter away! His  _ everything! _

While he had been seething in indignation, Greg had breezed past him without another word. There is the sound of barking again, and John turns in time to see a sheltie – still a puppy – run out from somewhere and give a giggling Greg welcoming kisses and licks. There is a black bandana embroidered with the Jolly Roger tied around the puppy’s neck that matches the one wrapped around Sherlock’s head. So the pup is Sherlock’s. For loneliness, John presumes. He wonders who actually looks after the sheltie. Certainly not the irresponsible man that had been his flatmate. Mrs. Hudson?

“Daddy!” The girl exclaims, having noticed Greg’s entry. “You brought fish & chips!?!” She jumps off the chair, still holding onto Mr. Mann’s decapitated corpse and hugs Greg’s legs just as Sherlock had come over to rescue the bags of takeaway from the exuberant pup.

“No, Bear – this is human food.” John hears Sherlock talking to the puppy. “I have a nice salmon-based dinner for you. I think you would like it.” The dog barks some more, wagging his little tail fiercely – and Sherlock picks him up easily in his arms like a beloved child.

Oh god. John blinks in disbelief. This cannot be. 

And then Sherlock’s eyes fall upon him. There is a sadness in them, but John finds himself already speaking, utterly unmoved. “You’ve got to be kidding me! How long have you two been together? My wife is  _ dead _ , and you are off cavorting with  _ this  _ man – who is trying to actively destroy my life!” 

Before Sherlock could utter a word, Greg is already walking towards him. There is a twitch in his jaw, as if he is trying to get his own anger under control. “Leave Sherlock alone. Haven’t you done enough damage by now? You are scaring my daughter.”

From his peripheral view, John could see Sherlock had sat down with Bear in one arm, and Greg’s daughter in his lap. His lips are moving, but John cannot make out what he is saying. 

“And it’s none of your business as to what Sherlock and I get up to these days. As far as I am concerned, you lost that privilege when you landed your first blow on him weeks ago. And if your bloody life is destroyed, then it’s your own sodding –”

“So you  _ are  _ sleeping with him!?” It is the only thing John had managed to pick up. “I thought you’d know better by now – but he’s got you brainwashed –”

“Dr. Watson.” 

John stops in his tracks when he hears the familiar tread of two feet and an umbrella coming from behind him. His blood runs cold at the greeting. The skin around his neck tingles ominously.

“Oh, uh – Mycroft. I… was just leaving.” 

Without another glance at anyone, John turns and leaves – little realizing that he is unwanted by everyone there. 

***

“Lock?” Mycroft asks soothingly when they are in Sherlock’s bedroom for a bit of privacy.

Sherlock doesn’t need to turn to know the myriad of questions that this one word represents. Are you okay, dear? Anything that I could help you with? Should I go teach Dr. Watson another lesson? Will you be okay? Should I send Lestrade away? A comforting hand slides against him, stopping at the small of his back. Sherlock turns slightly, and buries his face against Mycroft’s neck – feeling the prickle of tears against his eyelids. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” 

A tender kiss on the forehead. Sherlock shakes his head against Mycroft.

“I… I just need a moment.” He manages.

“Take all the moments you need, love. Do you want me to go?”

“No.” Sherlock murmurs – his breath brushing against his brother’s neck. “Just… just hold me?”

“Of course.” Two ever-so-reliable arms embrace him, holding him close. They gently rock him, like Sherlock had done for a frightened Hannah earlier while John had been bursting to explode and afterwards to soothe her. 

Sherlock doesn’t even recognize him anymore. John. Somewhere along the way – maybe during the Fall, or Mary’s death – or somewhere in between, John had changed. And not for the better. That anger-management course that Greg had recommended to John weeks ago might have been a useful place to start – but Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that there is something intrinsically broken within his former best friend. Perhaps, irreparably. And – he had failed to observe this change for himself until now – when John had taken out his anger on Greg, rather than on him. 

Alas, it is what it is...

“He… he resented me.” Sherlock whispers. He had seen it in John’s eyes. “That… I was – happy… Or rather, that I am happy.” He then smiles grimly against Mycroft’s shirt. “But, of course – he saw, but failed to observe. Like usual. About the reason why I was happy.”

“Better he suspects your DI rather than me.” Mycroft brushes another kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Greg was only too happy to play along.” Sherlock says with amusement, now standing up straight – to rub away the rest of the wetness from his eyes. 

“As long as you know who you belong to, brother dear.” Mycroft leans forward to give him a proper kiss this time. 

“Mm… of course. Come – brother – let’s go eat fish. I am okay now. Even though I am sad that this means I will never see Rosie again…”

Sherlock walks out.

Mycroft follows closely behind – intuitively knowing that his brother’s statement might not be as true as he thinks it is down the road. 

***

Leaning back against the chair, Mycroft – stuffed full of fried haddock and perfectly-fried chips – watches as Sherlock shows a giggling Hannah, Bear’s new accomplishments. The pup weaves eagerly between his brother’s moving legs, before leaping through a circle made by Sherlock’s arms when he squats down before taking a neat little bow by raising his rear end upwards. The little girl claps enthusiastically after the performance, before reaching over to pet Bear – and the fond look that Sherlock gives her makes Mycroft indulgently smile. 

Ah… his brother’s goldfishes! 

He hears Lestrade sigh reluctantly and say. “Hannah, it’s time to go home. Can you please clean up and get dressed?”

“Aw… Dad! Just a little longer?” 

“Sorry, Khaleesi, time to go. You will be back here next week.”

“Khaleesi?” Mycroft remarks, amused. If he isn’t wrong, there is an awful lot of blood and guts in that story, even for a homicide detective’s daughter. “You started her young.”

“Better than a princess stuck in a tower waiting for some guy to save her.” The DI explains. “Better a girl with dragons at her beck and call, right – Hannah?”

“Rawr!” Hannah growls while gathering her coat, scarf, hat and mitts, causing Bear to bark in response. 

“Say bye to everyone, Hannah.” Lestrade puts on his own jacket.

“Bye, Lock!” Hannah gives Sherlock a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Bear.” A kiss for the pup. And then she runs up to Mycroft and utters shyly. “Bye, Myc –?”

Mycroft pats her on the head. Goldfish she may be, but he can show some affection to someone who has won his Lock’s heart. “See you next Thursday, Hannah.” 

When the Lestrades had vacated the flat, Sherlock shuts and locks the door after them, before running and crawling into Mycroft’s lap. They do a little snogging – simple kisses that neither of them could get enough of. They are happy to just be together. 

“I suppose next week, Hannah and I will frolic in Mrs. Hudson’s flat.” Sherlock remarks after a particularly breathless kiss. 

Mycroft looks around the flat. There isn’t much left – most of Sherlock’s things had been either brought over to his (or rather, theirs) or tossed. The stuff that’s left – such as Hannah’s toys and some of the lab equipment will be moved downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat in the next few days. 

“An end of an era.” Mycroft muses. Of course, here is where that (in)famous relationship of his brother and John Watson had begun. It seems fitting that it would end here for what appeared to be for good, right before Sherlock had been scheduled to give the flat up.

“We will be roommates, brother – for better or for worse.” Sherlock jests.

“Ah, but we will have a lot of fun, won’t we?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock cuddles up to Mycroft. “You make me happier than I thought possible.”

Mycroft kisses his brother’s curls. “I am glad.”

“Arf-arf!” Bear runs up to them with a rubber ball held in his jaws. 

Taking the slobber-covered ball, Mycroft flings it over towards Sherlock’s bedroom, and the sheltie immediately turns tail, running for the bright orange and purple toy. Sherlock grabs a tissue from the table and passes it to his brother – who wipes his hands with it. 

“Shall we head back then?” Mycroft asks after they had each thrown the ball several times between them. 

“Yeah. Let’s go home, My.” Sherlock agrees. None of his clothes or toiletries are here any longer. It would make no sense to stay. Even his bed had been stripped of its linens and pillows.

Ah. Home. Mycroft gets up to go leash up Bear – and walks him over to the flat entrance – where Sherlock had already put on his winter outerwear. Sherlock gazes at him – his eyes filled with such love and contentment that it fills Mycroft with a tingly sort of warmth within his once-reportedly heartless chest. And he knows that really – home is wherever his brother may be.

**^~the end~^**


End file.
